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ISAAC  FOOT 
LIBRARY 


THE 


COMPLETE    POEMS 


VV.  M.  THACKERAY 


NEW  YORK 

WHITE,    STOKES,    AND    ALLEN 

1SS3 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


This  cditio7i  cf  Air.  Thackeray  s  poems  ivill  he  found 
to  include  all  the  verses  that  are  scattered  tkrotighout 
the  atithors  various  "airitiiigs. 


T^ 


SANTA  BAiiiiAilA 

/  ^83 


CONTENTS. 


The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum,  Part  I.,      .        .  7 

The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum,  Past  II.,  14 
Abd-el-Kader    at    Toulon;     or.    The   Caged 

Hawk 23 

The  King  of  Brentford's  Testament,  .  .  26 
The   White   Squall.      (Journey  front  Cornhill 

to  Grand  Cairo),         ......  34 

Peg  of  Limavaddv.     (The  Irish  Sketch-Book),  39 

May-Dav  Ode, 44 

The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,          ...  49 

The  Mahogany  Tree, 52 

The  Yankee  Volunteers, 54 

The  Pen  and  the  Album, 56 

Mrs.  Katherine's  Lantern,       ....  sg 

Lucy's  Birthday, 61 

The  Cane-Bottom'd  Chair,       ....  61 

Piscator  and  Piscatrix, 64 

The  Rose  upon  my  Balcony.     {.Vanity  Fair),  66 

RONSARD  TO    HIS    MiSTRESS, 67 

At  THE  Church  Gate.     (Pendennis),        .        .  f8 

The  Age  of  Wisdom.     (Rebecca  and  Rowena),    .  69 

Sorrows  of  Werther, 70 

A  Doe  in  the  City, 71 

The  Last  of  May, 72 

■'  Ah,    Bleak    and    Barren    was    the    Moor." 

(Vanity  Fair), 73 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Song  OF  THE  Violet.  (The  Adventures  of  Phil! f),  74 

Fairy  Days.     (The  Fitz-Boodle  Papers),    .        .  75 

Pocahontas.     (T/ie  Virginians),     .        .        .        .  -j-j 

From  Pocahontas.     (The  Virginians)^      .        .  78 

The  Legend  of  St.  Sophia  of  Kioff,        .        .  78 

Titmarsh's  Carmsn  Lilliense,  .  .  .  103 
Jeams  of  Buckley  Square — A  Heligy.    (Diary 

o_f  C.  yeanies  de  la  Pluche),  ....  107 
Links  upon    my   Sister's   Portrait.    (Diary  0/ 

C.  jfeames  de  la  Pluche), 109 

Little  Billee, iii 

The    End    of   the   Play.     (Dr.   Birch   and  his 

Young  Friends), 113 

Vanitas  Vanitatum, 116 


LOVE-SONGS  MADE  EASY. 

What  Makes  my  Heart  to  Thrill  and  Glow?  119 
The  Ghazul,  or  Oriental  Love-song  : 

The  Rocks, 121 

The  Merry  Bard, 122 

The  Caique, 122 

My  Nora, 113 

To  Mary.     (The  Book  0/ Snobs),     ....  125 

Serenade.     (The  Paris  Sketch-Book),        .        .  125 


FIVE  GERMAN  DITTIES. 

A  Tragic  Story, 137 

The  Chaplet, 128 

The  King  on  the  Tower, lag 

To  a  very  old  Woman, 130 

A  Credo.     (The  Adventures  of  Philip),    .        .  131 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

FOUR  IMITA  TIONS  OF  BERANGER. 

Le  Roy  d'Yvbtot, 133 

The  King  of  Yvetot, 134 

The  Ring  of  Brentford,        ....  136 

Le  Grenikr, 138 

The  Garret,       .......  139 

Roger-Bontemps, 140 

Jolly  Jack, 142 


IMITA  TION  OF  HORACE. 

To  his  Serving  Boy, 143 

Ad  Ministram, i43 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 

The  Knightly  Gukrdo.v 147 

The  Almack's  Adieu 148 

When  the  Gloom   is   on   the   Glen.     (Sketches 

and  Travels  in  London),    ....  149 

The  Red  Flag.  (Sketches and  Travels  in  London)  150 

Dear  Jack.     (Novels  by  Eminent  Hands),        .  151 
Commanders  of  the   Faithful.     (Rebecca  and 

Eowena),       .......  15a 

Whe.v  Moonlike  ore  the  Hazure  Seas.  (Di- 
ary of  C.  yeames  de  la  Pluche),  .  152 
King  Canute.  (Rebecca  and  Roivena),  .  .  153 
Friar's  Song.  (The  Paris  Sketch- Book),  .  138 
Atra  CURA.  (Rebecca  and  Rowena),  .  .  .  159 
Requiescat.  (Rebecca  and  Rowena),  .  .  159 
The  Willow-Tree.  (The  Fitz-Boodle  Papers),  .  160 
The    Willow-Tree — another    version.       (The 

Fitz-Boodle  Papers) 162 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

LYRA  HIBERNICA. 

The  Pimlico  Pavilion, 165 

The  Crystal  Palace, 168 

Molony's  Lament, 173 

Mr.  Molony's  Account  of  the  Ball  given  to 

THE    NePAULESE    AMBASSADOR   BY    THE    PE- 
NINSULAR AND  Oriental  Company,      .         .  176 
The  Battle  of  Limerick,          ....  178 
Larry  O'Toole.     {Novels  by  Eminent  Haniis),  .  182 
The  Rose  of  Flora.     {Memoirs  oj"  Barry  Lyn- 
don, Esq.'), 183 

The  Last  Irish  Grievance,       ....  184 


THE  BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN-  X. 

The  Wofle  New  Ballad  of  Jane  Roney    and 

Mary  Brown, 186 

The  Three  Christmas  Waits,  ....  189 

Lines  on  a  late  Hospicious  Ewekt,    .         .         .  194 

The  Ballad  of  Eliza  Davis,  .        .         .  igS 

Damages,  Two  Hundred  Pounds,  .  202 

The  Knight  and  the  Lady,      ....  206 

Jacob  Homnium's  Hobs 208 

The  Speculators, 213 

A    Woeful  New   Ballad   of    the    Protestant 

Conspiracy  to  take  the  Pope's  Life,  .  215 
The  Lamentable  Ballad  of  the  Foundling  of 

Shoreditch, 219 

The  Organ  Boy's  Appeal, 224 


BALLADS. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM. 


At  Paris,  hard  by  the  Maine  barriers, 

Whoever  will  choose  to  repair. 
Midst  a  dozen  of  wooden-legged  warriors 

May  haply  fall  in  with  old  Pierre. 
On  the  sunshiny  bench  of  a  tavern 

He  sits  and  he  prates  of  old  wars, 
And  moistens  his  pipe  of  tobacco 

With  a  drink  that  is  named  after  Mars. 

The  beer  makes  his  tongue  run  the  quicker, 

And  as  long  as  his  tap  never  fails 
Thus  over  his  favorite  liquor 

Old  Peter  will  tell  his  old  tales. 
Says  he,  "  In  my  life's  ninety  summers 

Strange  changes  and  chances  I've  seen, — 
So  here's  to  all  gentlemen  drummers 

That  ever  have  thumped  on  a  skin. 

"  Brought  up  in  the  art  military 

For  four  generations  we  are  ; 
My  ancestors  drumm'd  for  King  Harry, 

The  Huguenot  lad  of  Navarre. 
And  as  each  man  in  life  has  his  station 

According  as  Fortune  may  fix, 
While  Conde  was  waving  the  baton, 

My  grandsire  was  trolling  the  sticks. 


BALLADS. 

"  Ah  !  those  were  the  days  for  commanders  ! 

What  glories  my  grandfather  won, 
Ere  bigots,  and  lackeys,  and  panders 

The  fortunes  of  France  had  undone  ! 
In  Germany,  Flanders,  and  Holland, — 

What  foeman  resisted  us  then  ? 
No  ;  my  grandsire  was  ever  victorious, 

My  grandsire  and  Monsieur  Turenne. 

"  He  died  :  and  our  noble  battalions 

The  jade  fickle  Fortune  forsook  ; 
And  at  Blenheim,  in  spite  of  our  valiance. 

The  victory  lay  with  Malbrook. 
The  news  it  was  brought  to  King  Louis  ; 

Corbleu  !  how  his  Majesty  swore 
When  he  heard  they  had  taken  my  grandsire  : 

And  twelve  thousand  gentlemen  more. 

"  At  Naraur,  Ramillies,  and  Malplaquet 

Were  we  posted,  on  plain  or  in  trench  : 
Malbrook  only  need  to  attack  it 

And  away  from  him  scamper'd  we  French. 
Cheer  up  !  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  boys, — 

'Tis  written,  since  fighting  begun. 
That  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  conquer, 

And  sometimes  we  fight  and  we  run. 

' '  To  fight  and  to  run  was  our  fate  : 

Our  fortune  and  fame  had  departed. 
And  so  perish'd  Louis  the  Great, — 

Old,  lonely,  and  half  broken-hearted. 
His  coffin  they  pelted  with  mud. 

His  body  they  tried  to  lay  hands  on  ; 
And  so  having  buried  King  Louis 

They  loyally  served  his  great-grandson. 

' '  God  save  the  beloved  King  Louis  ! 
(For  so  he  was  nicknamed  by  some,) 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.        9 

And  now  came  my  father  to  do  his 
King's  orders  and  beat  on  the  drum. 

My  grandsire  was  dead,  but  his  bones 
Must  have  shaken,  I'm  certain,  for  joy, 

To  hear  daddy  drumming  the  English 
From  the  meadows  of  famed  Fontenoy. 

"  So  well  did  he  drum  in  that  battle 

That  the  enemy  show'd  us  their  baclcs  ; 
Corbleu  !  it  was  pleasant  to  rattle 

The  sticks  and  to  follow  old  Saxe  ! 
We  next  had  Soubise  as  a  leader, 

And  as  luck  hath  its  changes  and  fits, 
At  Rosbach,  in  spite  of  dad's  drumming, 

'Tis  said  we  were  beaten  by  Fritz. 

"  And  now  daddy  cross'd  the  Atlantic, 

To  drum  for  Montcalm  and  his  men  ; 
Morbleu  !  but  it  makes  a  man  frantic 

To  think  we  were  beaten  again  ! 
My  daddy  he  cross'd  the  wide  ocean, 

My  mother  brought  me  on  her  neck, 
And  we  came  in  the  year  fifty-seven 

To  guard  the  good  town  of  Quebec. 

"  In  the  year  fifty-nine  came  the  Britons, — 

Full  well  I  remember  the  day, — 
They  knocked  at  our  gates  for  admittance, 

Their  vessels  were  moor'd  in  our  bay. 
Says  our  general,  '  Drive  me  yon  red-coats 

Away  to  the  sea  whence  they  come  ! ' 
So  we  march'd  against  Wolfe  and  his  bull-dogs, 

We  marched  at  the  sound  of  the  drum, 

' '  I  think  I  can  see  my  poor  mammy 
With  me  in  her  hand  as  she  waits, 
And  our  regiment,  slowly  retreating. 
Pours  back  through  the  citadel  gates. 


O  BALLADS. 

Dear  mammy  she  looks  in  their  faces, 
And  asks  if  her  husband  is  come  ? 

— He  is  lying  all  cold  on  glacis, 

And  will  never  more  beat  on  the  drum. 

"  Come,  drink,  'tis  no  use  to  be  glum,  bo3'S  ! 

He  died  like  a  soldier  in  glory  ; 
Here's  a  glass  to  the  health  of  all  drum-boys, 

And  now  I'll  commence  my  own  story. 
Once  more  did  we  cross  the  salt  ocean. 

We  came  in  the  year  eighty-one  ; 
And  the  wrongs  of  my  father  the  drummer 

Were  avenged  by  the  drummer  his  son. 

"  In  Chesapeake  Bay  we  were  landed. 

In  vain  strove  the  British  to  pass  : 
Rochambeau  our  armies  commanded. 

Our  ships  they  were  led  by  De  Grasse, 
Morbleu  !  how  I  rattled  the  drumsticks 

The  day  we  march'd  into  Yorktown  ; 
Ten  thousand  of  beef-eating  British 

Their  weapons  we  caused  to  lay  down. 

"  Then  homewards  returning  victorious. 

In  peace  to  our  country  we  came, 
And  were  thanked  for  our  glorious  actions 

By  Louis,  Sixteenth  of  the  name. 
What  drummer  on  earth  could  be  prouder 

Than  I,  while  I  drumm'd  at  Versailles 
To  the  lovely  court  ladies  in  powder. 

And  lappets,  and  long  satin-tails  ? 

"  The  princes  that  day  pass'd  before  us, 
Our  countrymen's  glory  and  hope  ; 

Monsieur,  who  was  learned  in  Horace, 
D'Artois,  who  could  dance  the  tight-rope. 

One  night  we  kept  guard  for  the  Queen 
At  her  Majesty's  opera-bo.\, 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.      I  I 

While  the  King,  that  majestical  monarch, 
Sat  filing  at  home  at  his  locks. 

"Yes,  I  drumm'd  for  the  fair  Antoinette, 

And  so  smiling  she  look'd  and  so  tender, 
That  our  officers,  privates,  and  drummers. 

All  vow'd  they  would  die  to  defend  her. 
But  she  cared  not  for  us  honest  fellows. 

Who  fought  and  who  bled  in  her  wars, 
She  sneer'd  at  our  gallant  Rochambeau, 

And  turned  Lafayette  out  of  doors. 

"  Ventrebleu  !  then  I  swore  a  great  oath, 

No  more  to  such  tyrants  to  kneel ; 
And  so,  just  to  keep  up  my  drumming, 

One  day  I  drumm'd  down  the  Bastille, 
Ho,  landlord  !  a  stoup  of  fresh  wine. 

Come,  comrades,  a  bumper  we'll  try. 
And  drink  to  the  year  eighty-nine 

And  the  glorious  fourth  of  July  ! 

"  Then  bravely  our  cannon  it  thunder 'd 

As  onwards  our  patriots  bore. 
Our  enemies  were  but  a  hundred. 

And  we  twenty  thousand  or   more. 
They  carried  the  news  to  King  Louis. 

He  heard  it  as  calm  as  you  please, 
And,  like  a  majestical  monarch, 

Kept  filing  his  locks  and  his  keys. 

' '  We  show'd  our  republican  courage, 

We  storm'd  and  we  broke  the  great  gate  in, 
And  we  murder'd  the  insolent  governor 

For  daring  to  keep  us  a-waiting. 
Lambesc  and  his  squadrons  stood  by  : 

They  never  stirr'd  finger  or  thumb. 
The  saucy  aristocrats  trembled 

As  they  heard  the  republican  drum. 


1 2  BALLADS. 

"  Hurrah  !  what  a  storm  was  a-brewing  ! 

The  day  of  our  vengeance  was  come  ! 
Through  scenes  of  what  carnage  and  ruin 

Did  I  beat  on  the  patriot  drum  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  famed  tenth  of  August : 

At  midnight  I  beat  the  tattoo, 
And  woke  up  the  pikemen  of  Paris 

To  follow  the  bold  Barbaroux. 

"  With  pikes,  and  with  shouts,  and  with  torches 

March'd  onwards  our  dusty  battalions, 
And  we  girt  the  tall  castle  of  Louis, 

A  million  of  tatterdemalions  ! 
We  storm'd  the  fair  gardens  where  tower'd 

The  walls  of  his  heritage  splendid. 
Ah,  shame  on  him,  craven  and  coward. 

That  had  not  the  heart  to  defend  it  ! 

"  With  the  crown  of  his  sires  on  his  head, 

His  nobles  and  knights  by  his  side, 
At  the  foot  of  his  ancestors'  palace 

'Twere  easy,  methinks,  to  have  died. 
But  no  :   when  we  burst  through  his  barriers, 

Mid  heaps  of  the  dying  and  dead. 
In  vain  through  the  chambers  we  sought  him — 

He  had  turn'd  like  a  craven  and  fled. 


'  You  all  know  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  ? 

'Tis  hard  by  the  Tuileries  wall. 
Mid  terraces,  fountains,  and  statues, 

There  rises  an  obelisk  tall. 
There  rises  an  obelisk  tall, 

All  garnish'd  and  gilded  the  base  is : 
'Tis  surely  the  gayest  of  all 

Our  beautiful  city's  gay  places. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.      13 

"  Around  it  are  gardens  and  flowers, 

And  the  Cities  of  France  on  their  thrones, 
Each  crown'd  with  his  circlet  of  flowers 

Sits  watching  this  biggest  of  stones  ! 
I  love  to  go  sit  in  the  sun  there, 

The  flowers  and  fountains  to  see. 
And  to  think  of  the  deeds  that  were  done  there 

In  the  glorious  year  ninety-three. 

"  'Twas  here  stood  the  Altar  of  Freedom  ; 

And  though  neither  marble  nor  gilding 
Was  used  in  those  days  to  adorn 

Our  simple  republican  building, 
Corbleu  !  but  the  mere  guillotine 

Cared  little  for  splendour  or  show, 
So  you  gave  her  an  axe  and  a  beam, 

And  a  plank  and  a  basket  or  so. 

"Awful,  and  proud,  and  erect. 

Here  sat  our  republican  goddess. 
Each  morning  her  table  we  deck'd 

With  dainty  aristocrats'  bodies. 
The  people  each  day  flocked  around 

As  she  sat  at  her  meat  and  her  wine  : 
'Twas  always  the  use  of  our  nation 

To  witness  the  sovereign  dine. 

"  Young  virgins  with  fair  golden  tresses. 

Old  silver-hair'd  prelates  and  priests, 
Dukes,  marquises,  barons,  princesses. 

Were  splendidly  served  at  her  feasts. 
Ventrebleu  !  but  we  pamper'd  our  ogress 

With  the  best  that  our  nation  could  bring, 
And  dainty  she  grew  in  her  progress, 

And  called  for  the  head  of  a  King  ! 

"  She  called  for  the  blood  of  our  King, 

And  straight  from  his  prison  we  drew  him  ; 


1 4  BALLADS. 

And  to  her  with  shouting  we  led  him, 

And  took  him,  and  bound  him,  and  slew  him. 

'  The  Monarchs  of  Europe  against  me 
Have  plotted  a  godless  alliance  : 

I'll  fling  them  the  head  of  King  Louis,' 
She  said,  '  as  my  gage  of  defiance.' 

"  I  see  him  as  now,  for  a  moment. 

Away  from  his  gaolers  he  broke  ; 
And  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold. 

And  linger'd,  and  fain  would  have  spoke. 
'  Ho,  drummer  !  quick,  silence  yon  Capet.' 

Says  Santerre,  '  with  a  beat  of  your  drum.' 
Lustily  then  did  I  tap  it. 

And  the  son  of  Saint  Louis  was  dumb. 


The  glorious  days  of  September 

Saw  many  aristocrats  fall  ; 
'Twas  then  that  our  pikes  drank  the  blood 

In  the  beautiful  breast  of  Lamballe. 
Pardi,  'twas  a  beautiful  lady  ! 

I  seldom  have  look'd  on  her  like  ; 
And  I  drumm'd  for  a  gallant  procession. 

That  march'd  with  her  head  on  a  pike. 

Let's  shov,'  the  pale  head  to  the  Queen, 

We  said — she'll  remember  it  well. 
She  looked  from  the  bars  of  her  prison, 

And  shrieked  as  she  saw  it,  and  fell. 
We  set  up  a  shout  at  her  screaming, 

We  laugh'd  at  the  fright  she  had  shown 
At  the  sight  of  the  head  of  her  minion — 

How  she'd  tremble  to  part  with  her  own  ! 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.      \  5 

"  We  had  taken  the  head  of  King  Capet, 

We  called  for  the  blood  of  his  wife  ; 
Undaunted  she  came  to  the  scaffold, 

And  bared  her  fair  neck  to  the  knife. 
As  she  felt  the  foul  fingers  that  touch'd  her, 

She  shrank,  but  she  deigned  not  to  speak  : 
She  look'd  with  a  royal  disdain. 

And  died  with  a  blush  on  her  cheek  ! 

"  'Twas  thus  that  our  country'  was  saved  ; 

So  told  us  the  safety  committee. 
But  psha  !  I've  the  heart  of  a  soldier. 

All  gentleness,  mercy,  and  pity. 
I  loath'd  to  assist  at  such  deeds. 

And  my  drum  beat  its  loudest  of  tunes 
As  we  offered  to  justice  offended 

The  blood  of  the  bloody  tribunes. 

"  Away  with  such  foul  recollections  ! 

No  more  of  the  axe  and  the  block  ; 
I  saw  the  last  fight  of  the  sections, 

As  they  fell  'neath  our  guns  at  Saint  Rock. 
Young  Bonaparte  led  us  that  day  ; 

When  he  sought  the  Italian  frontier, 
I  follow'd  the  gallant  young  captain, 

I  follow'd  him  many  a  long  year. 

"  We  came  to  an  army  in  rags, 

Our  general  was  but  a  boy 
When  we  first  saw  the  Austrain  flags 

Flaunt  proud  in  the  fields  of  Savoy. 
In  the  glorious  year  ninety-six, 

We  march'd  to  the  banks  of  the  Po  ; 
I  carried  my  drum  and  my  sticks, 

And  we  laid  the  proud  Austrian  low, 

"  In  triumph  we  enter'd  Milan, 

We  seized  on  the  Mantuan  keys  ; 


1 6  BALLADS. 

The  troops  of  the  Emperor  ran, 

And  the  Pope  he  fell  down  on  his  knees.' 
Pierre's  comrades  here  call'd  a  fresh  bottle, 

And  clubbing  togetlicr  their  wealth. 
They  drank  to  the  Army  of  Italy, 

And  General  Bonaparte's  health. 

The  drummer  now  bared  his  old  breast, 

And  show'd  us  a  plenty  of  scars. 
Rude  presents  that  Fortune  had  made  him 

In  fifty  victorious  wars. 
'  This  came  when  I  follow'd  bold  Kleber — 

'Twas  shot  by  a  Mameluke  gun  ; 
And  this  from  an  Austrian  sabre, 

When  the  field  of  Marengo  was  won. 

"  My  forehead  has  many  deep  furrows, 

But  this  is  the  deepest  of  all  : 
A  Brunswicker  made  it  at  Jena, 

Beside  the  fair  river  of  Saal. 
This  cross,  'twas  the  Emperor  gave  it ; 

(God  bless  him  !)  it  covers  a  blow  ; 
I  had  it  at  Austerlitz  fight, 

As  I  beat  on  my  drum  in  the  snow. 

"  'Twas  thus  that  we  conquer'd  and  fought ; 

But  wherefore  continue  the  story  ? 
There's  never  a  baby  in  France 

But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  glory. 
But  has  heard  of  our  chief  and  our  fame. 

His  sorrows  and  triumphs  can  tell. 
How  bravely  Napoleon  conquer'd, 

How  bravely  and  sadly  he  fell. 

"  It  makes  my  old  heart  to  beat  higher. 
To  think  of  the  deeds  that  I  saw  ; 
I  follow'd  bold  Ney  through  the  fire, 
And  charged  at  the  side  of  Murat." 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.      I  7 

And  so  did  old  Peter  continue 

His  story  of  twenty  brave  years  ; 
His  audience  follow'd  with  comments — 
Rude  comments  of  curses  and  tears. 

He  told  how  the  Prussians  in  vain 

Had  died  in  defence  of  their  land  ; 
His  audience  laugh'd  at  the  story, 

And  vowed  that  their  captain  was  grand  ! 
He  had  fought  the  red  English,  he  said, 

In  many  a  battle  of  Spain  : 
They  cursed  the  red  English,  and  prayed 

To  meet  them  and  fight  them  again. 

He  told  them  how  Russia  was  lost. 

Had  winter  not  driven  them  back  ; 
And  his  company  cursed  the  quick  frost, 

And  doubly  they  cursed  the  Cossack. 
He  told  how  the  stranger  arrived  ; 

They  wept  at  the  tale  of  disgrace  ; 
And  they  long'd  but  for  one  battle  more, 

The  stain  of  their  shame  to  efface. 

Our  country  their  hordes  overrun, 

We  fled  to  the  fields  of  Champagne, 
And  fought  them,  though  twenty  to  one. 

And  beat  them  again  and  again  1 
Our  warrior  was  conquer'd  at  last  ; 

They  bade  him  his  crown  to  resign  ; 
To  fate  and  his  country  he  yielded 

The  rights  of  himself  and  his  line. 

'  He  came,  and  among  us  he  stood. 
Around  him  we  press'd  in  a  throng  : 

We  could  not  regard  him  for  weeping. 
Who  had  led  us  and  loved  us  so  long. 

'  I  have  led  you  for  twenty  long  years,' 
Napoleon  said  ere  he  went ; 


[5  BALLADS. 

'  Wherever  was  honor  I  found  you, 
And  with  you,  my  sons,  am  content  ! 

"  '  Though  Europe  against  me  was  armed, 
Your  chiefs  and  my  people  are  true  ; 
I  still  might  have  struggled  with  fortune. 
And  baffled  all  Europe  with  you. 

"  '  But  France  would  have  suffer'd  the  while, 
'Tis  best  that  I  suffer  alone  ; 
I  go  to  my  place  of  exile. 

To  write  of  the  deeds  we  have  done. 

"  '  Be  true  to  the  king  that  they  give  you. 
We  may  not  embrace  ere  we  part ; 
But,  General,  reach  me  your  hand. 
And  press  me,  I  pray,  to  your  heart.' 

"  He  call'd  for  our  battle  standard  ; 

One  kiss  to  the  eagle  he  gave. 
'  Dear  eagle  ! '  he  said,  '  may  this  kiss 

Long  sound  in  the  hearts  of  the  brave  ! ' 
'Twas  thus  that  Napoleon  left  us  ; 

Our  people  were  weeping  and  mute, 
As  he  passed  through  the  lines  of  his  guard, 

And  our  drums  beat  the  notes  of  salute. 


"  I  look'd  when  the  drumming  was  o'er, 

I  look'd,  but  our  hero  was  gone  ; 
We  were  destined  to  see  him  once  more, 

When  we  fought  on  the  Mount  of  St.  John. 
The  Emperor  rode  through  our  files  ; 

'Twas  June,  and  a  fair  Sunday  morn, 
The  lines  of  our  warriors  for  miles 

Stretch'd  wide  through  the  Waterloo  corn. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.      19 

'  In  thousands  we  stood  on  the  plain, 

The  red-coats  were  crowning  the  height ; 
'  Go  scatter  yon  English,'  he  said  ; 
'We'll  sup,  lads,  at  Brussels  to-night.' 
We  answer'd  his  voice  with  a  shout ; 
Our  eagles  were  bright  in  the  sun  ; 
Our  drums  and  our  cannon  spoke  out. 
And  the  thundering  battle  begun. 

'  One  charge  to  another  succeeds, 

Like  waves  that  a  hurricane  bears  ; 
All  day  do  our  galloping  steeds 

Dash  fierce  on  the  enemy's  squares. 
At  noon  we  began  the  fell  onset  : 

We  charged  up  the  Englishmen's  hill  ; 
And  madly  we  charged  it  at  sunset — 

His  banners  were  floating  there  still. 

'  — Go  to  !  I  will  tell  you  no  more  ; 

You  know  how  the  battle  was  lost. 
Ho  !  fetch  me  a  beaker  of  wine. 

And,  comrades,  I'll  give  you  a  toast. 
I'll  give  you  a  curse  on  all  traitors, 

Who  plotted  our  Emperor's  ruin  ; 
And  a  curse  on  those  red-coated  English, 

Whose  bayonets  helped  our  undoing. 

'  A  curse  on  those  British  assassins. 

Who  order'd  the  slaughter  of  Ney  ; 
A  curse  on  Sir  Hudson,  who  tortured 

The  life  of  our  hero  away. 
A  curse  on  all  Russians — I  hate  them — 

On  all  Prussian  and  Austrian  fry  ; 
And  oh  !  but  I  pray  we  may  meet  them. 

And  fight  them  again  ere  I  die." 

'Twas  thus  old  Peter  did  conclude 
His  chronicle  with  curses  fit. 


BALLADS. 

lie  spoke  the  tale  in  accents  rude, 
In  ruder  verse  I  copied  it. 

Perhaps  the  tale  a  moral  bears, 
(All  tales  in  time  to  this  must  come,) 

The  story  of  two  hundred  years 
Writ  on  the  parchment  of  a  drum. 

What  Peter  told  with  drum  and  stick, 
Is  endless  theme  for  poet's  pen  : 

Is  found  in  endless  quartos  thick. 
Enormous  books  by  learned  men. 

And  ever  since  historian  writ, 

And  ever  since  a  bard  could  sing. 

Doth  each  exalt  with  all  his  wit 
The  noble  art  of  murdering. 

We  love  to  read  the  glorious  page, 
How  bold  Achilles  killed  his  foe  ; 

And  Turnus,  felled  by  Trojans'  rage. 
Went  howling  to  the  shades  below. 

How  Godfrey  led  his  red-cross  knights. 
How  mad  Orlando  slash'd  and  slew  ; 

There's  not  a  single  bard  that  writes 
But  doth  the  glorious  theme  renew. 

And  while,  in  fashion  picturesque, 
The  poet  rhymes  of  blood  and  blows, 

The  grave  historian  at  his  desk 

Describes  the  same  in  classic  prose. 

Go  read  the  works  of  Reverend  Coxe, 
You'll  duly  see  recorded  there 

The  history  of  the  self-same  knocks 

Here  roughly  sung  by  Drummer  Pierre. 


THE  CHRONICLE  OF  THE  DRUM.      2  I 

Of  battles  fierce  and  warriors  big, 
He  writes  in  phrases  dull  and  slow. 

And  waves  his  cauliflower  wig, 

And  shouts  "Saint  George  for  Marlborow  !  " 

Take  Doctor  Southey  from  the  shelf, 

An  LL.D., — a  peaceful  man  ; 
Good  Lord,  how  doth  he  plume  himself 

Because  we  beat  the  Corsican  ! 

From  first  to  last  his  page  is  filled 

With  stirring  tales  how  blows  were  struck. 

He  shows  how  we  the  Frenchmen  kill'd, 
And  praises  God  for  our  good  luck. 

Some  hints,  'tis  true,  of  politics 

The  doctors  give  and  statesman's  art  : 

Pierre  only  bangs  his  drum  and  sticks. 
And  understands  the  bloody  part. 

He  cares  not  what  the  cause  may  be. 
He  is  not  nice  for  wrong  and  right ; 

But  show  him  where's  the  enemy. 
He  only  asks  to  drum  and  fight. 

They  bid  him  fight, — perhaps  he  wins  ; 

And  when  he  tells  the  story  o'er, 
The  honest  savage  brags  and  grins, 

And  only  longs  to  fight  once  more. 

But  luck  may  change,  and  valor  fail, 
Our  drummer,  Peter,  meet  reverse, 

And  with  a  moral  points  his  tale — 
The  end  of  all  such  tales — a  curse. 

Last  year,  my  love,  it  was  my  hap 
Behind  a  grenadier  to  be. 


22  BALLADS. 

And,  but  he  wore  a  hairy  cap, 

No  taller  man,  methinks,  than  me. 

Prince  Albert  and  the  Queen,  God  wot, 
(Be  blessings  on  the  glorious  pair  !) 

Before  us  passed.     I  saw  them  not — • 
I  only  saw  a  cap  of  hair. 

Your  orthodox  historian  puts 

In  foremost  rank  the  soldier  thus, 

The  red-coat  bully  in  his  boots. 

That  hides  the  march  of  men  from  us. 

He  puts  them  there  in  foremost  rank. 
You  wonder  at  his  cap  of  hair  : 

You  hear  his  sabre's  cursed  clank. 
His  spurs  are  jingling  everywhere. 

Go  to  !  I  hate  him  and  his  trade  : 
"Who  bade  us  so  to  cringe  and  bend 

And  all  God's  peaceful  people  made 
To  such  as  him  subservient  ? 

Tell  me  what  find  we  to  admire 
In  epaulets  and  scarlet  coats — 

In  men,  because  they  load  and  fire. 
And  know  the  art  of  cutting  throats  ? 


Ah,  gentle,  tender  lady  mine  ! 

The  winter  wind  blows  cold  and  shrill 
Come,  fill  me  one  more  glass  of  wine. 

And  give  the  silly  fools  their  will. 

And  what  care  we  for  war  and  wrack. 
How  kings  and  heroes  rise  and  fall  ? 


ABD-EI^KADER  AT   TOULON.         23 

Look  yonder,*  in  his  coffin  black 
There  lies  the  greatest  of  them  all  ! 

To  pluck  him  down,  and  keep  him  up, 
Died  many  million  human  souls. — 

'Tis  twelve  o'clock  and  time  to  sup  ; 
Bid  Mary  heap  the  fire  with  coals. 

He  captured  many  thousand  guns  ; 

He  wrote  "  The  Great"  before  his  name  ; 
And  dying,  only  left  his  sons 

The  recollection  of  his  shame. 

Though  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 
He  died  without  a  rood  his  own  ; 

And  borrow'd  from  his  enemies 
Six  foot  of  ground  to  lie  upon. 

He  fought  a  thousand  glorious  wars. 

And  more  than  half  the  world  was  his, 
And  somewhere  now,  in  yonder  stars, 
Can  tell,  mayhap,  what  greatness  is. 
1841. 


ABD-EL-KADER  AT  TOULON. 

OR,  THE  CAGED  HAWK. 

No  more,  thou  lithe  and  long-winged  hawk,  of 

desert  life  for  thee  ; 
No  more  across  the  sultry  sands  shalt  thou   go 

swooping  free  : 

♦  This  ballad  was  written  at  Paris  at  the  time  of   the 
Second  ('uneral  of  Napoleon. 


24  BALLADS. 

Blunt  idle  talons,  idle  beak,  with  spurning  of  thy 

chain. 
Shatter  against  thy  cage    the   wing  thou    ne'er 

may'st  spread  again. 

Long,  sitting  by  their  watchfires,  shall  the  Ka- 

byles  tell  the  tale 
Of  thy  dash  from  Ben  Halifa  on  the  fat  Metidja 

vale  ; 
How  thou  swept'st  the  desert  over,  bearing  down 

the  wild  El  Riff, 
From  eastern  Beni  Salah  to  western  Ouad  Shelif  ; 

How  thy  white  burnous  went  streaming,  like  the 

storm-rack  o'er  the  sea, 
When  thou  rodest  in  the  vanwattl  of  the  Moorish 

chivalry ; 
How  thy    razzia  was   a  whirlwind,  thy   onset  a 

simoom. 
How  thy  sword-sweep  was  the  lightning,  dealing 

death  from  out  the  gloom  ! 

Nor  less  quick  to  slay  in  battle  than  in  peace  to 
spare  and  save. 

Of  brave  men  wisest  councillor,  of  wise  council- 
lors most  brave  ; 

How  the  eye  that  flashed  destruction  could  beam 
gentleness  and  love, 

How  lion  in  the  mated  lamb,  how  eagle  mated 
dove  ! 

Availed  not  or  steel  or  shot  'gainst  that  charm  td 

life  secure. 
Till  cunning   France,  in  last  resource,  tossed  up 

the  golden  lure  ; 
And  the  carrion  buzzards   round  him   stooped, 

faithless,  to  the  cast, 


ABD-EL-KADER  AT   TOULOX.         25 

And  the  wild  hawk  of  the  desert  is  caught  and 
caged  at  last. 

Weep,  maidens  of  Zerifah,  above  the  laden  loom  ! 
Scar,  chieftains  of  Al  Elmah,  your  cheeks  in  grief 

and  gloom  ! 
Sons  of  the  Beni  Snazam,  throw  down  the  useless 

lance, 
And  stoop  your  necks  and   bare  your  backs  to 

yoke  and  scourge  of  France  ! 

'Twas  not  in  fight  they  bore  him  down  ;  he  never 

cried  anihn  ; 
He  never  sank  his  sword  before  the   Prince  of 

Franghistan  ; 
But  with  traitors  all  around   him,  his  star  upon 

the  wane, 
He  heard  the  voice  of  Allah,  and  he  would  not 

strive  in  vain. 

They  gave  him  what  he  asked  them  ;  from  king 

to  king  he  spake, 
As  one  that   plighted  word  and  seal  not  knoweth 

how  to  break  : 
' '  Let  me  pass  from  out  my  deserts,  be't  mine 

own  choice  where  to  go  ; 
I  brook  no  fettered  life  to  live,  a  captive  and  a 

show." 

And  they  promised,  and  he   trusted   them,   and 

proud  and  calm  he  came. 
Upon  his  black  mare  riding,  girt  with  his  sword 

of  fame. 
Good  steed,  good  sword,  he  rendered  both  unto 

the  Frankish  throng  ; 
He  knew  them    false  and    fickle — but  a  Prince's 

word  is  strong. 


26  BALLADS. 

How  have  they  kept  their  promise  ?     Turned  they 

the  vessel's  prow 
Unto  Acre,  Alexandria,  as  they  have  sworn  e'en 

now  ? 
Not  so  :  from  Oran  northwards  the  white  sails 

gleam  and  glance. 
And  the  wild  hawk  of  the  desert  is  borne  away  to 

F~rance  ! 

Where  Toulon's  white-walled  lazaret  looks  south- 
ward o'er  the  wave. 

Sits  he  that  trusted  in  the  word  a  son  of  Louis 
gave. 

O  noble  faith  of  noble  heart  !  And  was  the  warn- 
ing vain, 

The  text  writ  by  the  Bourbon  in  the  blurred 
black  book  of  Spain? 

They  have  need  of  thee  to  gaze  on,  they  have 
need  of  thee  to  grace 

The  triumph  of  the  Prince,  to  gild  the  pinchbeck 
of  their  race. 

Words  are  but  wind,  conditions  must  be  con- 
strued by  GuizoT  ; 

Dash  out  thy  heart,  thou  desert  hawk,  ere  thou 
art  made  a  show  ! 


THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTA- 
MENT. 


The  noble  King  of  Brentford 
Was  old  and  verj'  sick. 

He  summon'd  his  physicians 
To  wait  upon  him  quick  ; 


KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT.    2 ; 

They  stepp'd  into  their  coaches 
And  brought  their  best  physick. 

They  cramm'd  their  gracious  master 

With  potion  and  with  pill  ; 
They  drench'd  him  and  they  bled  him  : 

They  could  not  cure  his  ill. 
"  Go  fetch,"  says  he,  "my  lawyer  ; 

I'd  better  make  my  will." 

The  monarch's  royal  mandate 

The  lawyer  did  obey  ; 
The  thought  of  six-and-eight-pence 

Did  make  his  heart  full  gay. 
"  What  is't,"  says  he,  "your  Majesty 

Would  wish  of  me  to-day  ?" 

"  The  doctors  have  belabor'd  me 

W^ith  potion  and  with  pill : 
My  hours  of  life  are  counted, 

0  man  of  tape  and  quill  ! 

Sit  down  and  mend  a  pen  or  two  ; 

1  want  to  make  my  will. 

"O'er  all  the  land  of  Brentford 

I'm  lord,  and  eke  of  Kew  : 
I've  three-per-cents  and  five-per-cents  ; 

My  debts  are  but  a  few  ; 
And  to  inherit  after  me 

I  have  but  children  two. 

"  Prince  Thomas  is  my  eldest  son  ; 

A  sober  prince  is  he. 
And  from  the  day  we  breech'd  him 

Till  now — he's  twenty-three — 
He  never  caused  disquiet 

To  his  poor  mamma  or  me. 


2  8  BALLADE. 

' '  At  school  they  never  flogg'd  him  ; 

At  colleg-e,  though  not  fast, 
Yet  his  litUe-go  and  great-go 

He  creditably  pass'd, 
And  made  his  year's  allowance 

For  eighteen  months  to  last. 

"  He  never  owed  a  shilling, 
Went  never  drunk  to  bed, 

He  has  not  two  ideas 

Within  his  honest  head — 

In  all  respects  he  differs 

From  my  second  son.  Prince  Ned. 

"  When  Tom  has  half  his  income 
Laid  by  at  the  year's  end, 

Poor  Ned  has  ne'er  a  stiver 
That  rightly  he  may  spend, 

But  sponges  on  a  tradesman. 
Or  borrows  from  a  friend. 

"  While  Tom  his  legal  studies 

Most  soberly  pursues. 
Poor  Ned  must  pass  his  mornings 

A-dawdling  with  the  Muse  : 
W^hile  Tom  frequents  his  banker, 

Young  Ned  frequents  the  Jews. 

"Ned  drives  about  in  buggies, 
Tom  sometimes  takes  a  'bus  ; 

Ah,  cruel  fate,  why  made  you 
My  children  differ  thus  ? 

Why  make  of  Tom  a  dullard. 
And  Ned  a  genius  ?" 

"  You'll  cut  him  with  a  shilling," 
Exclaimed  the  man  of  wits  : 


KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT.    2(j 

"  I'll  leave  my  wealth,"  said  Brentford, 

"  Sir  Lawyer,  as  befits. 
And  portion  both  their  fortunes 

Unto  their  several  wits." 

"Your  Grace  knows  best,"  the  lawyer  said, 
"  On  your  commands  I  wait." 

"  Be  silent.  Sir,"  says    Brentford, 
"  A  plague  upon  your  prate  ! 

Come  take  your  pen  and  paper, 
And  write  as  I  dictate." 

The  will  as  Brentford  spoke  it 
Was  writ  and  signed  and  closed  ; 

He  bade  the  lawyer  leave  him. 
And  turn'd  him  round  and  dozed  ; 

And  next  week  in  the  churchyard 
The  good  old  King  reposed. 

Tom,  dressed  in  crape  and  hatband, 

Of  mourners  was  the  chief  ; 
In  bitter  self-upraidings 

Poor  Edward  showed  his  grief  : 
Tom  hid  his  fat  white  countenance 

In  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

Ned's  eyes  were  full  of  weeping, 

He  falter'd  in  his  walk  ; 
Tom  never  shed  a  tear. 

But  onwards  he  did  stalk, 
As  pompous,  black,  and  solemn 

As  any  catafalque. 

And  when  tlie  bones  of  Brentford — 

That  gentle  king  and  just — 
With  bell  and  book  and  candle 

Were  duly  laid  in  dust. 


3°  BALLADS. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  says  Thomas, 
"  Let  business  be  discussed. 

"When  late  our  sire  beloved 

Was  taken  deadly  ill, 
Sir  Lawyer,  you  attended  him 

(I  mean  to  tax  your  bill)  ; 
And,  as  you  signed  and  wrote  it, 

I  prithee  read  the  will." 

The  lawyer  wiped  his  spectacles, 
And  drew  the  parchment  out  ; 

And  all  the  Brentford  family 
Sat  eager  round  about : 

Poor  Ned  was  somewhat  anxious, 
But  Tom  had  ne'er  a  doubt. 

"  My  son,  as  I  make  ready 
To  seek  my  last  long  home, 

Some  cares  I  had  for  Neddy, 
But  none  for  thee,  my  Tom  : 

Sobriety  and  order 

You  ne'er  departed  from. 

"  Ned  hath  a  brilliant  genius. 
And  thou  a  plodding  brain  ; 

On  thee  I  think  with  pleasure. 
On  him  with  doubt  and  pain." 

("  You  see,  good  Ned,"  says  Thomas, 
"  What  he  thought  about  us  twain.") 

"  Though  small  was  your  allowance, 

You  saved  a  little  store  ; 
And  those  who  save  a  little 

Shall  get  a  plenty  more." 
As  the  lawyer  read  this  compliment, 

Tom's  eyes  were  running  o'er. 


KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT.    3  I 

"  The  tortoise  and  the  hare,  Tom, 

Set  out  at  each  his  pace  ; 
The  hare  it  was  the  fleeter. 

The  tortoise  won  the  race  ; 
And  since  the  world's  beginning 

This  ever  was  the  case. 

"  Ned's  genius,  blithe  and  singing, 

Steps  gaily  o'er  the  ground  ; 
As  steadily  you  trudge  it, 

He  clears  it  with  a  bound  ; 
But  dulness  has  stout  legs,  Tom, 

And  wind  that's  wondrous  sound. 

"  O'er  fruits  and  flowers  alike,  Tom, 

You  pass  with  plodding  feet ; 
You  heed  not  one  nor  t'other. 

But  onwards  go  your  beat ; 
While  genius  stops  to  loiter 

With  all  that  he  may  meet  ; 

"  And  ever  as  he  wanders, 

Will  have  a  pretext  fine 
For  sleeping  in  the  morning. 

Or  loitering  to  dine. 
Or  dozing  in  the  shade. 

Or  basking  in  the  shine. 

"  Your  little  steady  eyes,  Tom, 
Though  not  so  bright  as  those 

That  restless  round  about  him 
His  flashing  genius  throws. 

Are  excellently  suited 

To  look  before  your  nose. 

"  Thank  heaven,  then,  for  the  blinkers 
It  placed  before  your  eyes  ; 


32  BALLADS. 

The  stupidest  are  strongest, 

The  witty  are  not  wise  ; 
Oh,  bless  your  good  stupidity  ! 

It  is  your  dearest  prize. 

"  And  though  my  lands  are  wide. 

And  plenty  is  my  gold 
Still  better  gifts  from  Nature, 

My  Thomas,  do  you  hold — 
A  brain  that's  thick  and  heavy, 

A  heart  that's  dull  and  cold. 

"Too  dull  to  feel  depression, 

Too  hard  to  heed  distress, 
Too  cold  to  yield  to  passion 

Or  silly  tenderness. 
March  on — your  road  is  open 

To  wealth,  Tom,  and  success. 

"Ned  sinneth  in  extravagance. 

And  you  in  greedy  lust." 
("I'  faith,"  says  Ned,  "our  father 

Is  less  polite  than  just.") 
"  In  you,  son  Tom,  I've  confidence, 

But  Ned  I  cannot  trust." 

' '  Wherefore  my  lease  and  copyholds. 

My  lands  and  tenements. 
My  parks,  my  farms,  and  orchards. 

My  houses  and  my  rents. 
My  Dutch  stock  and  my  Spanish  stock, 

My  five  and  three  per  cents, 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas" — 
("  What,  all  ?"  poor  Edward  said. 

"Well,  well,  I  should  have  spent  them. 
And   Tom's  a  prudent  head  ") — 


KING  OF  BRENTFORD'S  TESTAMENT.    ZZ 

"  I  leave  to  you,  my  Thomas, — 
To  you  IN  TRUST  for  Ned." 

The  wrath  and  consternation 

What  poet  e'er  could  trace 
That  at  this  fatal  passage 

Came  o'er  Prince  Tom  his  face  ; 
The  wonder  of  the  company. 

And  honest  Ned's  amaze  ? 

"  'Tis  surely  some  mistake," 

Good-naturedly  cries  Ned  ; 
The  lawyer  answered  gravely, 

"  'Tis  even  as  I  said  ; 
'Twas  thus  his  gracious  Majesty 

Ordain'd  on  his  death-bed. 

"  See,  here  the  will  is  witness'd. 

And  here's  his  autograph." 
"In  truth,  our  father's  writing," 

Says  Edward,  with  a  laugh  ; 
"  But  thou  shalt  not  be  a  loser,  Tom  r 

We'll  share  it  half  and  half." 

"  Alas  !  my  kind  young  gentleman, 

This  sharing  cannot  be  ; 
'Tis  written  in  the  testament 

That  Brentford  spoke  to  me, 
'  I  do  forbid  Prince  Ned  to  give. 

Prince  Tom  a  halfpenny. 

"  '  He  hath  a  store  of  money. 
But  ne'er  was  known  to  lend  it ; 

He  never  helped  his  brother  ; 
The  poor  he  ne'er  befriended  ; 

He  hath  no  need  of  property 
Who  knows  not  how  to  spend  it. 


34  BALLADS. 

"  '  Poor  Edward  knows  but  how  to  spend, 

And  thrifty  Tom  to  hoard  ; 
Let  Thomas  be  the  steward  then, 

And  Edward  be  the  lord  ; 
And  as  the  honest  laborer 

Is  worthy  his  reward, 

"  '  I  pray  Prince  Ned,  my  second  son, 

And  my  successor  dear, 
To  pay  to  his  intendant 

Five  hundred  pounds  a  year  ; 
And  to  think  of  his  old  father, 

And  live  and  make  good  cheer.'  " 

Such  was  old  Brentford's  honest  testament. 
He  did  devise  his  moneys  for  the  best. 
And  lies  in  Brentford  church  in  peaceful  rest. 

Prince  Edward  lived,  and  money  made  and  spent ; 
But  his  good  sire  was  wrong,  it  is  confess'd. 

To  say  his  son,  young  Thomas,  never  lent. 
He  did.     Young  Thomas  lent  at  interest. 

And  nobly  took  his  twenty-five  per  cent. 

Long  time  the  famous  reign  of  Ned  endured 
O'erChiswick,  Fulham,  Brentford, Putney, Kew, 

But  of  extravagance  he  ne'er  was  cured. 

And  when  both  died,  as  mortal  men  will  do, 

'Twas  commonly  reported  that  the  steward 
Was  very  much  the  richer  of  the  two. 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL. 

On  deck,  beneath  the  awning, 
I  dozing  lay  and  yawning  ; 
It  was  the  gray  of  dawning. 
Ere  yet  the  sun  arose  ; 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL.  35 

And  above  the  funnel's  roaring, 
And  the  fitful  winds  deploring, 
I  heard  the  cabin  snoring 

With  universal  nose. 
I  could  hear  the  passengers  snorting, 
I  envied  their  disporting — 
Vainly  I  was  courting 

The  pleasure  of  a  doze  ! 

So  I  lay,  and  wondered  why  light 
Came  not,  and  watched  the  twilight, 
And  the  glimmer  of  the  skylight. 

That  shot  across  the  deck, 
And  the  binnacle  pale  and  steady. 
And  the  dull  glimpse  of  the  dead-eye. 
And  the  sparks  in  fiery  eddy 

That  whirled  from  the  chimney  neck. 
In  our  jovial  floating  prison 
There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizzen. 
And  never  a  star  had  risen 

The  hazy  sky  to  speck. 

Strange  company  we  harbored  ; 
We'd  a  hundred  Jews  to  larboard. 
Unwashed,  uncombed,  unbarbered — 

Jews  black,  and  brown,  and  gray  ; 
With  terror  it  would  seize  ye. 
And  make  your  souls  uneasy. 
To  see  those  Rabbis  greasy. 

Who  did  nought  but  scratch  and  pray  : 
Their  dirty  children  puking — 
Their  dirty  saucepans  cooking — 
Their  dirty  fingers  hooking 

Their  swarming  fleas  away. 

To  starboard,  Turks  and  Greeks  were — 
Whiskered  and  brown  their  cheeks  were — 


36  BALLADS. 

Enormous  wide  their  breeks  were, 

Their  pipes  did  puff  alway  ; 
Each  on  his  mat  allotted 
In  silence  smoked  and  squatted, 
Whilst  round  their  children  trotted 

In  pretty,  pleasant  play. 
He  can't  bat  smile  who  traces 
The  smiles  on  those  brown  faces, 
And  the  pretty  prattling  graces 
Of  those  small  heathens  gay. 

And  so  the  hours  kept  tolling, 
And  through  the  ocean  rolling 
Went  the  brave  "  Iberia"  bowling 
Before  the  break  of  day — 

When  A  SQUALT,,  upon  a  sudden. 
Came  o'er  the  waters  scudding  ; 
And  the  clouds  began  to  gather, 
And  the  sea  was  lashed  to  lather. 
And  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled. 
And  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled, 
And  the  ship,  and  all  the  ocean. 
Woke  up  in  wild  commotion. 
Then  the  wind  set  up  a  howling, 
And  the  poodle  dog  a  yowling, 
And  the  cocks  began  a  crowing. 
And  the  old  cow  raised  a  lowing. 
As  she  heard  tlie  tempest  blowing  ; 
And  fowls  and  geese  did  cackle. 
And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  cackle  ; 
And  the  spray  dashed  o'er  the  funnels, 
And  down  the  deck  in  runnels  ; 
And  the  rushing  water  soaks  all. 
From  the  seamen  in  the  fo'ksal 
To  the  stokers  whose  black  faces 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL.  37 

Peer  out  of  their  bed  places  ; 

And  the  captain  he  was  bawling. 

And  the  sailors  pulling,  hauling. 

And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 

Was  shivered  in  the  squalling  ; 

And  the  passengers  awaken, 

Most  pitifully  shaken  ; 

And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 

For  the  necessary  basins. 

Then  the  Greeks  they  groaned  and  quivered, 

And  they  knelt,  and  moaned,  and  shivered, 

As  the  plunging  waters  met  them 

And  splashed  and  overset  them  ; 

And  they  call  in  their  emergence 

Upon  countless  saints  and  virgins  ; 

And  their  marrowbones  are  bended, 

And  they  think  the  world  is  ended. 

And  the  Turkish  women  for'ard 

Were  frightened  and  behorror'd  ; 

And  shrieking  and  bewildering. 

The  mothers  clutched  their  children  ; 

The  men  sang  "  Allah  !  Illah  ! 

Mashallah  Bismillah  !" 

As  the  warring  waters  doused  them, 

And  splashed  them  and  soused  them, 

And  they  called  upon  the  Prophet, 

And  thought  but  little  of  it. 

Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewry 

Jumped  up  and  bit  like  fury  ; 

And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 

Did  on  the  main-deck  wake  up 

(I  wot  those  greasy  Rabbins 

Would  never  pay  for  cabins)  ; 

And  each  man  moaned  and  jabbered  in 

His  filthy  Jewish  gaberdine, 


38  BALLADS. 

In  woe  and  lamentation, 

And  howling  consternation. 

And  the  splashing  water  drenches 

Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches  ; 

And  they  crawl  from  bales  and  benches 

In  a  hundred  thousand  stenches. 

This  was  the  White  Squall  famous, 

Which  latterly  o'ercame  us. 

And  which  all  will  well  remember 

On  the  28th  September  ; 

When  a  Prussian  captain  of  Lancers 

(Those  tight-laced,  whiskered  prancers) 

Came  on  the  deck  astonished. 

By  that  wild  squall  admonished, 

And  wondering  cried,  "  Potztausend  ! 

Wie  ist  der  Sturm  jetzt  brausend  !" 

And  looked  at  Captain  Lewis, 

W^ho  calmly  stood  and  blew  his 

Cigar  in  all  the  bustle, 

And  scorned  the  tempest's  tussle. 

And  oft  we've  thought  thereafter 

How  he  beat  the  storm  to  laughter  ; 

For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 

With  that  vain  wind  could  wrestle  ; 

And  when  a  wreck  we  thought  her, 

And  doomed  ourselves  to  slaughter, 

How  gaily  he  fought  her. 

And  though  the  hubbub  brought  her, 

And  as  the  tempest  caught  her. 

Cried,     "George!      some     brandy-and- 

WATER  !" 

And  when,  its  force  expended. 
The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 
And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 
Came  blushing  o'er  the  sea, 


PEG   OF  LIMAVADDY.  39 

I  thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 
My  little  girls  were  waking, 
And  smiling,  and  making 
A  prayer  at  home  for  me. 
1844. 


PEG   OF   LIMAVADDY. 

Riding  from  Coleraine 

(Famed  for  lovely  Kitty), 
Came  a  Cockney  bound 

Unto  Derry  city  ; 
Weary  was  his  soul, 

Shivering  and  sad,  he 
Bumped  along  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 

Mountains  stretch'd  around, 

Gloomy  was  their  tinting. 
And  the  horse's  hoofs 

Made  a  dismal  dinting  ; 
Wind  upon  the  heath 

Howling  was  and  piping. 
On  the  heath  and  bog, 

Black  with  many  a  snipe  in. 
Mid  the  bogs  of  black. 

Silver  pools  were  flashing, 
Crows  upon  their  sides 

Pecking  were  and  splashing. 
Cockney  on  the  car 

Closer  folds  his  plaidy. 
Grumbling  at  the  road 

Leads  to  Limavaddy. 


40  BALLADS. 

Through  the  crashing  woods 

Autumn  brawl'd  and  blustered, 
Tossing  round  about 

Leaves  the  hue  of  mustard  ; 
Yonder  lay  Lough  Foyle, 

Which  a  storm  was  whipping, 
Covering  with  the  mist 

Lake,  and  shores,  and  shipping. 
Up  and  down  the  hill 

(Nothing  could  be  bolder), 
Horse  went  with  a  raw 

Bleeding  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Where  are  horses  changed?" 

Said  I  to  the  laddy 
Driving  on  the  box  : 

"Sir,  at  Limavaddy." 

Limavaddy  inn's 

But  a  humble  bait-house, 
Where  you  may  procure 

Whiskey  and  potatoes  ; 
Landlord  at  the  door 

Gives  a  smiling  welcome 
To  the  shivering  wights 

Who  to  this  hotel  come. 
Landlady  within 

Sits  and  knits  a  stocking, 
With  a  wary  foot 

Baby's  cradle  rocking. 

To  the  chimney  nook 

Having  found  admittance. 

There  I  watch  a  pup 

Playing  with  two  kittens  ; 

(Playing  round  the  fire. 
Which  of  blazing  turf  is, 

Roaring  to  the  pot 


PEG   OF  LIMAVADDY.  4 1 

Which  bubbles  with  the  murphies.) 
And  the  cradled  babe 

Fond  the  mother  nursed  it, 
Singing  it  a  song 

As  she  twists  the  worsted  ! 

Up  and  down  the  stair 

Two  more  young  ones  patter 
(Twins  were  never  seen 

Dirtier  or  fatter). 
Both  have  mottled  legs, 

Both  have  snubby  noses. 
Both  have — Here  the  host 

Kindly  interposes  : 
"  Sure  you  must  be  froze 

With  the  sleet  and  hail,  sir  : 
So  will  you  have  some  punch. 

Or  will  you  have  some  ale,  sir  ?" 

Presently  a  maid 

Enters  with  the  liquor 
(Half  a  pint  of  ale 

Frothing  in  a  beaker). 
Gads  !   I  didn't  know 

What  my  beating  heart  meant : 
Hebe's  self,  I  thought. 

Entered  the  apartment. 
As  she  came  she  stniled. 

And  the  smile  bewitching, 
On  my  word  and  honor. 

Lighted  all  the  kitchen  ! 
With  a  curtsey  neat 

Greeting  the  new  comer, 
Lovely,  smiling  Peg 

Offers  me  the  rummer  ; 

But  my  trembling  hand 
Up  the  beaker  tilted. 


42  BALLADS. 

And  the  glass  of  ale 
Every  drop  I  spilt  it  : 

Spilt  it  every  drop 

(Dames,  who  read  my  volumes, 

Pardon  such  a  word) 

On  my  what-d'ye-call-'ems  ! 

Witnessing  the  sight 

Of  that  dire  disaster, 
Out  began  to  laugh 

Missis,  maid,  and  master  ; 
Such  a  merr)'  peal 

'Specially  Miss  Peg's  was, 
(As  the  glass  of  ale 

Trickling  down  my  legs  was, ) 
That  the  joyful  sound 

Of  that  mingling  laughter 
Echoed  in  my  ears 

Many  a  long  day  after. 

Such  a  silver  peal  ! 

In  the  meadows  listening, 
You  who've  heard  the  bells 

Ringing  to  a  christening  ; 
You  who  ever  heard 

Caradori  pretty, 
Smiling  like  an  angel, 

Singing  "  Giovinetti  ;" 
Fancy  Peggy's  laugh, 

Sweet,  and  clear,  and  cheerful, 
At  my  pantaloons 

With  half  a  pint  of  beer  full ! 

When  the  laugh  was  done, 
Peg,  the  pretty  hussy, 

Moved  about  the  room 
Wonderfully  busy  ; 


PEG   OF  LIMAVADDY.  43 

Now  she  looks  to  see 

If  the  kettle  keeps  hot ; 
Now  she  rubs  the  spoons, 

Now  she  cleans  the  teapot ; 
Now  she  sets  the  cups 

Trimly  and  secure  : 
Now  she  scours  a  pot, 

And  so  it  was  I  drew  her. 

Thus  it  was  I  drew  her 

Scouring  of  a  kettle, 
(Faith  !  her  blushing  cheeks 

Redden'd  on  the  metal !) 
Ah  !  but  'tis  in  vain 

That  I  try  to  sketch  it ; 
The  pot  perhaps  is  like, 

But  Peggy's  face  is  wretched. 
No  !  the  best  of  lead 

And  of  india-rubber 
Never  could  depict 

That  sweet  kettle-scrubber  ! 

See  her  as  she  moves, 

Scarce  the  ground  she  touches 
Airy  as  a  fay. 

Graceful  as  a  duchess  : 
Bare  her  rounded  arm, 

Bare  her  little  leg  is, 
Vestris  never  show'd 

Ankles  like  to  Peggy's. 
Braided  is  her  hair. 

Soft  her  look  and  modest, 
Slim  her  little  waist 

Comfortably  bodiced. 

This  I  do  declare, 
Happy  is  the  laddy 


44  BALLADS. 

Who  the  heart  can  share 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Married  if  she  were, 

Blest  would  be  the  daddy 
Of  the  children  fair 

Of  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Beauty  is  not  rare 

In  the  land  of  Paddy, 
Fair  beyond  compare 

Is  Peg  of  Limavaddy. 

Citizen  or  Squire, 

Tory,  Whig,  or  Radi- 
cal would  all  desire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
Had  I  Homer's  fire. 

Or  that  of  Serjeant  Taddy, 
Meetly  I'd  admire 

Peg  of  Limavaddy. 
And  till  I  expire, 

Or  till  I  grow  mad,  I 
Will  sing  unto  my  lyre 

Peg  of  Limavaddy  ! 


MAY-DAY   ODE. 

But  yesterday  a  naked  sod 

The  dandies  sneered  from  Rotten  Row, 
And  cantered  o'er  it  to  and  fro  : 

And  see  'tis  done  ! 
As  though  'twere  by  a  wizard's  rod 
A  blazing  arch  of  lucid  glass 
Leaps  like  a  fountain  from  the  grass 
To  meet  the  sun  ! 


MAY-DAY  ODE.  45 

A  quiet  green  but  few  days  since. 
With  cattle  browsing  in  the  shade  : 
And  here  are  lines  of  bright  arcade 
In  order  raised  I 
A  palace  as  for  fairy  prince. 
A  rare  pavilion,  such  as  man 
Saw  never  since  mankind  began, 

And  built  and  glazed  ! 

A  peaceful  place  it  was  but  now. 
And  lo  !  within  its  shining  streets 
A  multitude  of  nations  meets  ; 

A  countless  throng 
I  see  beneath  the  crystal  bow. 

And  Gaul  and  German,  Russ  and  Turk, 
Each  with  his  native  handiwork 

And  busy  tongue. 

I  felt  a  thrill  of  love  and  awe 

To  mark  the  different  garb  of  each, 
The  changing  tongue,  the  various  speech 
Together  blent  : 
A  thrill,  methinks,  like  His  who  saw 
"  All  people  dwelling"  upon  earth 
Praising  our  God  with  solemn  mirth 
And  one  consent." 

High  Sovereign,  in  your  Royal  state, 
Captains   and  chiefs,  and  councillors, 
Before  the  lofty  palace  doors 

Are  open  set, — 
Hush  !  ere  you  pass  the  shining  gate  ; 
Hush  !  ere  the  heaving  curtain  draws, 
And  let  the  Royal  pageant  pause 
A  moment  yet. 


46  BALLADS. 

People  and  prince  a  silence  keep  ! 
Bow  coronet  and  kingly  crown, 
Helmet  and  plume,  bow  lowly  down, 
The  while  the  priest. 
Before  the  splendid  portal  step, 

(While  still  the  wondrous  banquet  stays,) 
p'rom  Heaven  supreme  a  blessing  prays 
Upon  the  feast. 

Then  onwards  let  the  triumph  march  ; 
Then  let  the  loud  artillery  roll. 
And  trumpets  ring,  and  joy-bells  toll,. 
And  pass  the  gate. 
Pass  underneath  the  shining  arch, 

'Neath  which  the  leafy  elms  are  green  ; 
Ascend  unto  your  throne,  O  Queen  ! 
And  take  your  state. 

Behold  her  in  her  Royal  place  ; 
A  gentle  lady  ;  and  the  hand 
That  sways  the  sceptre  of  this  land. 

How  frail  and  weak  ' 
Soft  is  the  voice,  and  fair  the  face  ; 

She  breathes  amen  to  prayer  and  hymn  ; 
No  wonder  that  her  eyes  are  dim. 

And  pale  her  cheek. 

This  moment  round  her  empire's  shores 
The  winds  of  Austral  winter  sweep, 
And  thousands  lie  in  midnight  sleep 
At  rest  to-day. 
Oh  !  awful  is  that  crown  of  yours, 
Queen  of  innumerable  realms 
Sitting  beneath  the  budding  elms 

Of  English  May  ! 


MAY-DAY  ODE.  47 

A  wondrous  sceptre  'tis  to  bear  : 
Strange  mystery  of  God  which  set 
Upon  her  brow  yon  coronet, — 

The  foremost  crown 
Of  all  the  world,  on  one  so  fair  ! 
That  chose  her  to  it  from  her  birth, 
And  bade  the  sons  of  all  the  earth 

To  her  bow  down. 

The  representatives  of  man 
Here  from  the  far  Antipodes, 
And  from  the  subject  Indian  seas, 

In  Congress  meet  ; 
From  Afric  and  from  Hindustan, 
From  Western  continent  and  isle, 
The  envoys  of  her  empire  pile 

Gifts  at  her  feet  ; 

Our  brethren  cross  the  Atlantic  tides, 
Loading  the  gallant  decks  which  once 
Roared  a  defiance  to  our  guns, 

With  peaceful  store  ; 
Symbol  of  peace,  their  vessel  rides  !  * 
O'er  English  waves  float  Star  and  Stripe, 
And  firm  their  friendly  anchors  gripe 
The  father  shore  ! 

From  Rhine  and  Danube,  Rhone  and  Seine, 
As  rivers  from  their  sources  gush, 
The  swelling  floods  of  nations  rush. 
And  seaward  pour  : 

From  coast  to  coast  in  friendly  chain, 

With  countless  ships  we  bridge  the  straits, 
And  angry  ocean  separates 

Europe  no  more. 

*  The  U.  S.  frigate  "  St.  Lawrence." 


48  BALLADS. 

From  Mississippi  and  from  Nile — 
From  Baltic,  Ganges,  Bosphorus, 
In  England's  ark  assembled  thus 

Are  friend  and  guest. 
Look  down  the  mighty  sunlit  aisle. 
And  see  the  sumptuous  banquet  set, 
The  brotherhood  of  nations  met 

Around  the  feast ! 

Along  the  dazzling  colonnade, 
Far  as  the  straining  eye  can  gaze. 
Gleam  cross  and  fountain,  bell  and  vase, 
In  vistas  bright ; 
And  statues  fair  of  nymph  and  maid. 
And  steeds  and  pards  and  Amazons, 
Writhing  and  grappling  in  the  bronze, 
In  endless  fight. 

To  deck  the  glorious  roof  and  dome. 
To  make  the  Queen  a  canopy, 
The  peaceful  hosts  of  industry 

Their  standards  bear. 
Yon  are  the  works  of  Brahmin  loom  ; 
On  such  a  web  of  Persian  thread 
The  desert  Arab  bows  his  head 

And  cries  his  prayer. 

Look  yonder  where  the  engines  toil  : 
These  England's  arms  of  conquest  are. 
The  trophies  of  her  bloodless  war  : 

Brave  weapons  these. 
Victorious  over  wave  and  soil. 

With  these  she  sails,  she  weaves,  she  tills, 
Pierces  the  everlasting  hills 

And  spans  the  sea:;. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  BOUILLABAISSE.     49 

The  engine  roars  upon  its  race, 
The  shuttle  whirrs  along  the  woof, 
The  people  hum  from  floor  to  roof. 

With  Babel  tongue. 
The  fountain  in  the  basin  plays, 
The  chanting  organ  eclioes  clear, 
An  awful  chorus  'tis  to  hear, 

K  wondrous  song  ! 

Swell,  organ,  swell  your  trumpet  blast, 
March,  Queen  and  Royal  pageant,  march 
By  splendid  aisle  and  springing  arch 
Of  this  fair  Hall : 
And  see  !  above  the  fabric  vast, 

God's  boundless  heaven  is  bending  blue, 
God's  peaceful  sunlight's  beaming  through, 
And  shines  o'er  all. 
May,  1S51. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 

A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous. 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields. 
Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is  — 

The  New  Street  of  the  little  Fields. 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 

But  still  in  comfortable  case  ; 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — 
A  sort  of  soup  or  broth,  or  brew. 

Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 
That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo  ; 


50  BALLADS. 

Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace : 

All  these  you  eat  at  Terra's  tavern. 
In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 


Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  'tis  ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks. 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties. 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting. 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before  ; 
The  smiling  red-cheeked  ^caili^re  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  : 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table. 

And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter — nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"  How's  Monsieur  Terre,  waiter,  pray?" 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder — 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre's  run  his  race." 
"  What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 

"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ?" 

"Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's  answer  ; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?" 
"  Tell  me  a  good  one." — "  That  I  can,  Sir  : 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE.     5  I 

"  So  Terre's  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 
j\Iy  old  accustom'd  corner-place  ; 

"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 
With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook  ; 
Ah  !  vanish'd  many  a  busy  year  is 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  cari  luogJii, 

I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter  !  quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace  ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places. 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage  ; 

There's  laughing  ToM  is  laughing  yet  ; 
There's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage  ; 

There's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette  ; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing  : 

Good  Lord  !  the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  claret  flowing. 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  mc  !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone. 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place— but  not  alone. 


5  2  BALLADS. 

A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 
A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up. 

And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 
— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 


I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes : 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is  ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
"With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse  ! 


THE   MAHOGANY   TREE. 

Christmas  is  here  : 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we  : 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Shelter  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night-birds  are  we : 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing  like  them. 
Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 


THE  MAHOGANY   TREE.  53 

Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  we  sit ; 
Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short — 
When  we  are  gone, 
Let  them  sing  on 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  tiiis ; 
Faces  we  miss. 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true, 
(lentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust  ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
I-et  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we'll  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one ; 
Pile  up  the  coals, 
Fill  the  red  bowls. 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

Drain  we  the  cup. — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
Tn  the  Red  Sea. 
r.Iantle  it  up  ; 
Kmpty  it  yet  ; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills. 


54  BALLADS. 

Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue-devil  sprite, 
Leave  us  to-night. 
Round  the  old  tree. 


THE  YANKEE  VOLUNTEERS. 

"A  surgeon  of  the  United  States  Army  says,  that  on 
inquiring  of  the  captain  of  his  company,  he  found  that 
nine  tenths  of  the  men  had  enlisted  on  account  of  some 
female  difficulty." — Morning  Paper. 

Ye  Yankee  volunteers  ! 
It  makes  my  bosom  bleed 
When  I  your  stor}'  read, 

Though  oft  'tis  told  one. 
So — in  both  hemispheres 
The  women  are  untrue. 
And  cruel  in  the  New, 

As  in  the  Old  one  ! 

What — in  this  company 

Of  sixty  sons  of  Mars, 

Who  march'd  neath  Stripes  and  Stars, 

With  fife  and  horn, 
Nine  tenths  of  all  we  see 
Along  the  warlike  line 
Had  init  one  cause  to  join 

This  Hope  Forlorn  ? 

Deserted  from  the  realm 
Where  tyrant  \'enus  reigns. 
You  slipp'd  her  wicked  chains, 
Fled  and  outran  her. 


THE   YANKEE    VOLUNTEERS.         55 

And  now,  with  sword  and  helm, 
Together  banded  are 
Beneath  the  Stripe  and  Star- 
Embroider'd  banner  ! 

And  is  it  so  with  all 

The  warriors  ranged  in  line, 

With  lace  bedizen'd  fine 

And  swords  gold-hilted  ? 
Yon  lusty  corporal. 
Yon  color-man  who  gripes 
The  flag  of  Stars  and  Stripes — 

Has  each  been  jilted  ? 

Come,  each  man  of  this  line, 
The  privates  strong  and  tall, 
"  The  pioneers  and  all," 

The  fifer  nimble — 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
Captain  with  epaulets, 
And  Blacky  there,  who  beats 

The  clanging  cymbal — 

O  cymbal-beating  black. 
Tell  us,  as  thou  canst  feel, 
Was  it  some  Lucy  Neal 

Who  caused  thy  ruin  ? 
O  nimble  fifing  Jack, 
And  drummer  making  din 
So  deftly  on  the  skin, 

With  thy  rat-tattooing— 

Confess,  ye  volunteers, 
Lieutenant  and  Ensign, 
And  Captain  of  the  line. 
As  bold  as  Roman — 


56  BALLADS. 

Confess,  ye  grenadiers, 
However  strong  and  tall. 
The  Conqueror  of  you  all 
Is  Woman,  Woman  ! 

No  corselet  is  so  proof 

But  through  it  from  her  bow 

The  shafts  that  she  can  throw 

Will  pierce  and  rankle. 
No  champion  e'er  so  tough, 
But's  in  the  struggle  thrown, 
And  tripp'd  and  trodden  down 

By  her  slim  ankle. 

Thus  always  it  was  ruled  : 
And  when  a  woman  smiled. 
The  strong  man  was  a  child, 

The  sage  a  noodle. 
Alcides  was  befool 'd, 
And  silly  Samson  shorn, 
Long,  long  ere  you  were  born, 

Poor  Yankee  Doodle  ! 


THE  PEN  AND  THE  ALBUM. 

"I    AM    Miss    Catherine's    book,"    the    Album 

speaks  ; 
"  I've  lain  among  your  tomes  these  many  weeks  ; 
I'm  tired  of  their  old  coats  and  yellow  cheeks. 

"  Quick,  Pen  !  and  write  a  line  with  a  good  grace  : 

Come  !  draw  me  off  a  funny  little  face  ; 

And,  prithee,  send  me  back  to  Chesham  Place." 


THE  PEN  AND    THE  ALBUM.        57 


' '  I  am  my  master's  faithful  old  Gold  Pen  ; 

I've  served  him  three  long  years,  and  drawn  since 

then 
Thousands  of  funny  women  and  droll  men. 

' '  O  Album  !  could  I  tell  you  all  his  ways 

And  thoughts,  since  I  am  his,   these  thousand 

days, 
Lord,  how  your  pretty  pages  I'd  amaze  !" 


"  His  ways?  his  thoughts?  Just  whisper  me  a 

few  ; 
Tell  me  a  curious  anecdote  or  two, 
And  write  'em  quickly  off,  good  Mordan,  do  !" 


"  Since  he  my  faithful  service  did  engage 
To  follow  him  through  his  queer  pilgrimage 
I've  drawn  and  written  many  a  line  and  page. 

"Caricatures  I  scribbled  have,  and  rhymes, 
And  dinner-cards,  and  picture  pantomimes, 
And  merry  little  children's  books  at  times. 

"  I've  writ  the  foolish  fancy  of  his  brain  ; 

The  aimless  jest  that,  striking,  hath  caused  pain  ; 

The  idle  word  that  he'd  wish  back  again. 


"  I've  help'd  him  to  pen  many  a  line  for  bread  ; 
To  joke,  with  sorrow  aching  in  his  head  ; 
And  make    vour  laughter  when    his  own    heart 
bled. 


5^^  BALLADS. 

"  I've  spoke  with  men  of  all  degree  and  sort — 
Peers  of  the  land,  and  ladies  of  the  Court  ; 
Oh,  but  I've  chronicled  a  deal  of  sport  ! 

"  Feasts  that  were  ate  a  thousand  days  ago. 
Biddings  to  wine  that  long  hath  ceased  lo  ilow. 
Gay  meetings  with  good  fellows  long  laid  low  ; 

"  Summons  to  bridal,  banquet,  burial,  ball. 
Tradesmen's  polite  reminders  of  his  small 
Account  due  Christmas  last — I've  answer'd  all. 

"  Poor  Diddler's  tenth  petition  for  a  half- 
Guinea  ;  Miss  Bunyan's  for  an  autograph  : 
So  I  refuse,  accept,  lament,  or  laugh, 

"Condole,  congratulate,  invite,  praise,  scoff. 
Day  after  day  still  dipping  in  my  trough. 
And  scribbling  pages  after  pages  off. 

"Day  after  day  the  labor's  to  be  done. 
And  sure  as  come  the  postman  and  the  sun. 
The  indefatigable  ink  must  run. 


"  Go  back,  my  pretty  little  gilded  tome. 
To  a  fair  mistress  and  a  pleasant  home. 
Where  soft  hearts  greet  us  whensoe'er  we  come  I 

"Dear,  friendly  eyes,  with  constant  kindness  lit, 
However  rude  my  verse,  or  poor  my  wit, 
Or  sad  or  gay  my  mood,  you  welcome  it. 

"  Kind  lady  !  till  my  last  of  lines  is  penn'd. 
My  master's  love,  grief,  laughter,  at  an  end. 
Whene'er  I  write  your  name,  may  I  write  friend  ! 


MRS.  KATHERINE'S  LANTERN.      59 

"  Not  all  are  so  that  were  so  in  past  years  ; 
Voices,  familiar  once,  no  more  he  hears  ; 
Names,  often  writ,  are  blotted  out  in  tears. 

"So  be  it  : — joys  will  end  and  tears  will  dry — 
Album  !  my  master  bids  me  wish  good-by 
He'll  send  you  to  your  mistress  presently. 

"  .''vnd  thus  with  thankful  heart  he  closes  you  : 
Blessing  the  happy  hour  when  a  friend  he  knew 
So  gentle,  and  so  generous,  and  so  true. 

"  Nor  pass  the  words  as  idle  phrases  by  ; 

Stranger  !  I  never  writ  a  flattery, 

Nor  sign'd  the  page  that  register'd  a  lie." 


MRS.  KATHERINE'S  LANTERN, 

WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

"  Coming  from  a  gloomy  court. 
Place  of  Israelite  resort. 
This  old  lamp  I've  brought  with  me. 
Madam,  on  its  panes  you'll  see 
The  initials  K  and  E." 

"  An  old  lantern  brought  to  me  ? 

Ugly,  dingy,  battered,  black  ! " 

(Here  a  lady  I  suppose 

Turning  up  a  pretty  nose) — 

"  Pray,  sir,  take  the  old  thing  back. 

I've  no  taste  for  hric-a-brcu." 

"  Please  to  mark  the  letters  twain"— 
(I'm  supposed  to  speak  again) — 


6o  BALLADS. 

' '  Graven  on  the  lantern  pane. 
Can  you  tell  me  who  was  she, 
Mistress  of  the  flower}'  wreath, 
And  the  anagram  beneath — 
The  mysterious  K  E  ? 

' '  Full  a  hundred  years  are  gone 
Since  the  little  beacon  shone 
From  a  Venice  balcony  : 
There,  on  summer  nights,  it  hung, 
And  her  lovers  came  and  sung 
To  their  beautiful  K  E. 

' '  Hush  !  in  the  canal  below 
Don't  you  hear  the  plash  of  oars 
Underneath  the  lantern's  glow, 
And  a  thrilling  voice  begins 
To  the  sound  of  mandolins  ? — 
Begins  singing  of  amore 
And  delire  and  dolore — 
O  the  ravishing  tenore  ! 

"  Lady,  do  you  know  the  tune  ? 
Ah,  we  all  of  us  have  hummed  it ! 
I've  an  old  guitar  has  thrummed  it, 
Under  many  a  changing  moon. 
Shall  I  try  it?     Do  v.v.  MI  *  * 
What  is  this  ?     Ma  foi,  the  fact  is, 
That  my  hand  is  out  of  practice. 
And  my  poor  old  fiddle  cracked  is, 
And  a  man — I  let  the  truth  out — 
Vv'ho's  had  almost  every  tooth  out. 
Cannot  sing  as  once  he  sung, 
When  he  was  young  as  you  are  young, 
When  he  was  young  and  lutes  were  strung, 
And  love-lamps  in  the  casement  hung." 


THE  CANE-BOTTOM'D   CHAIR.        6l 

LUCY'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Seventeen  rose-buds  in  a  ring, 

Thick  with  sister  flowers  beset, 

In  a  fragrant  coronet, 
Lucy's  servants  this  day  bring. 

Be  it  the  l)irthday  wreath  she  wears 
Fresh  and  fair,  and  symbolHng 

The  young  number  of  her  years. 
The  sweet  blushes  of  her  spring. 

Types  of  youth  and  love  and  hope  ! 

Friendly  hearts  your  mistress  greet. 

Be  you  ever  fair  and  sweet. 
And  grow  lovelier  as  you  ope  ! 

Gentle  nurseling,  fenced  about 
With  fond  care,  and  guarded  so. 

Scarce  you've  heard  of  storms  without, 
Frosts  that  bite,  or  winds  that  blow  ! 

Kindly  has  your  life  begun, 

And  we  pray  that  Heaven  may  send 
To  our  floweret  a  warm  sun, 

A  calm  summer,  a  sweet  end. 
And  where'er  shall  be  her  home, 

May  she  decorate  the  place  ; 
Still  expanding  into  bloom. 

And  developing  in  grace. 


THE  CANE-BOTTOM'D  CHAIR. 

In  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars. 
And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I've  a  snug  little  kingdom  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 


62  BALLADS. 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure, 

But  the   fire  there  is   bright  and   the  air  rather 

pure  ; 
And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 
Is  grand  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 

This  snug  little  chamber  is  cramm'd  in  all. nooks 
AVith  worthless  old  knicknacksand  silly  old  books, 
And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 
Crack'd  bargains  from  brokers,  cheap  keepsakes 
from  friends. 

Old    armor,    prints,    pictures,    pipes,  china  (all 

crack'd), 
Old  rickety  tables,  and  chairs  broken-backed  ; 
A  twopenny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see  ; 
What  matter?  'tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  m.e. 

No  better  divan  need  the  Sultan  require. 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa  that  basks  by  the  fire  ; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp  ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old  lamp  ; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn  : 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muffins  upon. 

Long,  long  through  the  hours,  and  the  night,  and 

the  chimes, 
Here  we  talk  of  old  books,  and  old  friends,  and 

old  times ; 
As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie 
This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest. 
There's  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best : 


THE  CANE-BOTTOM' D   CHAIR.         63 

For  the  finest  of  couches  that's  padded  with  hair 
I    never   would   change    thee,  my  cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

'Tis  a  bandy-legg'd,  high-shoulder'd,  worm-eaten 

seat, 
With  a  creaking  old  back  and  twisted  old  feet  ; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  Fanny  sat  there, 
I   bless   thee   and   love  thee,  old  cane-bottom'd 

chair. 

If    chairs    have    but    feeling,    in    holding   such 

charms 
A  thrill  must  have  pass'd  through  your  wither'd 

old  arms  ! 
I  look'd,  and  I  long'd,  and  I  wish'd  in  despair  ; 
I  wished  myself  turn'd  to  a  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place. 
She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and   a  smile  on  her 

face  ! 
A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair. 
And    she    sat    there,  and    bloom'd    in  my  cane- 
bottom'd  chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 

Like  the  shrine  of   a  saint,  or  the  throne  of   a 

prince  ; 
Saint  Fanny,  my  patroness  sweet  I  declare, 
The  queen  of   my  heart  and   my  cane-bottom'd 

chair. 

When  the  candles  burn  low,  antl  the  company's 

gone. 
In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone — 
I  sit  here  alone,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair — 
l:\s  Fanny  I  see  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 


64  BALLADS. 

She  comes  from  the  past  and  revisits  my  room  ; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom  ; 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair. 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 


PISCATOR  AND  PISCATRIX. 

LINES  WRITTEN  TO   AN   ALBUM    PRINT. 

As  on  this  pictured  page  I  look, 
This  pretty  tale  of  line  and  hook 
As  though  it  were  a  novel-book 

Amuses  and  engages  : 
I  know  them  both,  the  boy  and  girl  ; 
She  is  the  daughter  of  the  Earl, 
The  lad  (that  has  his  hair  in  curl) 

My  lord  the  County's  page  is. 

A  pleasant  place  for  such  a  pair  ! 
The  fields  lie  basking  in  the  glare  ; 
No  breath  of  wind  the  heavy  air 

Of  lazy  summer  quickens. 
Hard  by  you  see  the  castle  tall  ; 
The  village  nestles  round  the  wall, 
As  round  about  the  hen  its  small 

Young  progeny  of  chickens. 

It  is  too  hot  to  pace  the  keep  ; 
To  climb  the  turret  is  too  steep  ; 
My  lord  the  Earl  is  dozing  deep, 

His  noonday  dinner  over : 
The  postern-warder  is  asleep 
(Perhaps  they've  bribed  him  not  to  peep) 
And  so  from  out  the  gate  they  creep, 

And  cross  the  fields  of  clover. 


PISCATOR  AND  PISCATRIX.  65 

Their  lines  into  the  brook  they  launch  ; 
He  lays  his  cloak  upon  a  branch, 
To  guarantee  his  Lady  Blanche 

's  delicate  complexion  : 
He  takes  his  rapier  from  his  haunch, 
That  beardless  doughty  champion  staunch  ; 
He'd  drill  it  through  the  rival's  paunch 

That  question'd  his  affection  ! 

O  heedless  pair  of  sportsmen  slack  ! 
You  never  mark,  though  trout  or  jack, 
Or  little  foolish  stickleback, 

Your  baited  snares  may  capture. 
What  care  has  she  for  line  and  hook  ? 
She  turns  her  back  upon  the  brook, 
Upon  her  lover's  eyes  to  look 

In  sentimental  rapture. 

O  loving  pair  !  as  thus  I  gaze 
Upon  the  girl  who  smiles  always. 
The  little  hand  that  ever  plays 

Upon  the  lover's  shoulder  ; 
In  looking  at  your  pretty  shapes, 
A  sort  of  envious  wish  escapes 
(Such  as  the  Fox  had  for  the  Grapes) 

The  Poet  your  beholder. 

To  be  brave,  handsome,  twenty-two  ; 
With  nothing  else  on  earth  to  do. 
But  all  day  long  to  bill  and  coo  : 

It  were  a  pleasant  calling. 
And  had  I  such  a  partner  sweet  ; 
A  tender  heart  for  mine  to  beat, 
A  gentle  hand  my  clasp  to  meet  ; — 
I'd  let  the  world  flow  at  my  feet, 

And  never  heed  its  brawling. 


66  BALLADS. 


THE   ROSE    UPON   MY   BALCONY. 

The  rose  upon  my  balcony  the  morning  air  per- 
fuming, 
Was  leafless  all  the  winter  time  and  pining  for 
the  spring  ; 
You  ask  me  why  her  breath  is  sweet,  and  why 
her  cheek  is  blooming  : 
It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  birds  begin  to 
sing. 

The  nightingale,   whose  melody  is  through  the 
greenwood  ringing. 
Was  silent  when    the  boughs  were  bare    and 
winds  were  blowing  keen  : 
And  if,  Mamma,  you  ask  of  me  the  reason  of  his 
singing, 
It  is  because  the  sun  is  out  and  all  the  leaves 
are  green. 

Thus  each  performs  his  part.  Mamma :  the  birds 
have  found  their  voices. 
The  blowing  rose  a  flush.  Mamma,  her  bonny 
cheek  to  dye  ; 
And  there's  sunshine  in  my  heart,  Mamma,  which 
wakens  and  rejoices. 
And  so  I  sing  and  blush,  Mamma,  and  that's 
the  reason  why. 


RONSARD  TO  HIS  MISTRESS.        67 


RONSARD  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

'  Quand  vous  serez  bien  vieille,  au  soir  4  la  chandelle, 
Assise  aupres  du  feu  devisant  et  filant, 
Direz,  chantant  mes  vers  en  voiis  esmerveillant  : 
Ronsard  me  celebroit  du  temps  que  j'etois  belle." 

Some  winter  night,  shut  snugly  in 

Beside  the  fagot  in  the  hall, 
I  think  I  see  you  sit  and  spin. 

Surrounded  by  your  maidens  all. 
Old  tales  are  told,  old  songs  are  sung. 

Old  days  come  back  to  memory  ; 
You  say,  "  When  I  was  fair  and  young, 

A  poet  sang  of  me  !" 

There's  not  a  maiden  in  your  hall. 

Though  tired  and  sleepy  ever  so, 
But  wakes,  as  you  my  name  recall, 

And  longs  the  history  to  know. 
And,  as  the  piteous  tale  is  said. 

Of  lady  cold  and  lover  true. 
Each,  musing,  carries  it  to  bed, 

And  sighs  and  envies  you  ! 

"  Our  lady's  old  and  feeble  now," 

They'll  say  ;  ' '  she  once  was  fresh  and  fair. 
And  yet  she  spurn'd  her  lover's  vow, 

And  heartless  left  him  to  despair  : 
The  lover  lies  in  silent  earth. 

No  kindly  mate  the  lady  cheers  : 
She  sits  beside  a  lonely  hearth, 

With  threescore  and  ten  years  !" 

Ah  !  dreary  thoughts  and  dreams  are  those, 
But  wherefore  yield  me  to  despair. 


6S  BALLADS. 

While  yet  the  poet's  bosom  glows, 
While  yet  the  dame  is  peerless  fair  ? 

Sweet  lady  mine  !  while  yet  'tis  time 
Requite  my  passion  and  my  truth, 

And  gather  in  their  blushing  prime 
The  roses  of  your  youth  ! 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE. 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover  : 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming  : 
They've  hushed  the  Minster  bell  : 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell  : 

She's  coming,  she's  coming  ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last. 

Timid,  and  stepping  fast. 
And  hastening  hither, 

With  modest  eyes  downcast  : 

She  comes — she's  here — she's  past- 
May  Heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel,  undisturb'd,  fair  Saint ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 
Meekly  and  duly  ; 


THE  AGE  OF   WISDOM.  69 

I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 
With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM. 

Ho,  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 

That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear. 
All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win. 
This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains, 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer  ; 
Sighing  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybell's  window  panes, — 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass. 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear — 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year. 

Pledge  me  round,  I  bid  ye  declare. 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray 


)o  BALLADS. 

Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  pass'd  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away,  and  never  be  missed, 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian's  dead,  God  rest  her  bier. 

How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 
Marian's  married,  but  I  sit  here 
Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 
Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 

Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady. 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

And,  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies, 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled. 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 


A   DOE  IN  THE  CITY.  71 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 

Like  a  well-conducted  person, 
Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


A  DOE   IN   THE   CITY. 

Little  Kitty  Lorimer, 

Fair,  and  young,  and  witty. 
What  has  brought  your  ladyship 

Rambling  to  the  City  ? 

All  the  Stags  in  Capel  Court 

Saw  her  lightly  trip  it ; 
All  the  lads  of  Stock  Exchange 

Twigg'd  her  muff  and  tippet. 

With  a  sweet  perplexity, 

And  a  mystery  pretty, 
Threading  through  Threadneedle  Street, 

Trots  the  little  Kitty. 

What  was  my  astonishment — 

What  was  my  compunction, 
When  she  reached  the  Offices 

Of  the  Didland  Junction  ! 

Up  the  Didland  stairs  she  went. 

To  the  Didland  door,  Sir  ; 
Porters,  lost  in  wonderment. 

Let  her  pass  before,  Sir. 

"  Madam,"  says  the  old  chief  Clerk, 
"  Sure  we  can't  admit  ye." 


72  BALLADS. 

"  Where's  the  Didland  Junction  deed  ?" 
Dauntlessly  says  KiTTY. 

"If  you  doubt  my  honesty, 

Look  at  my  receipt,  Sir." 
Up  then  jumps  the  old  chief  Clerk, 

Smiling  as  he  meets  her. 

Kitty  at  the  table  sits 

(Whither  the  old  Clerk  leads  her), 
"  /  deliver  this"  she  says, 

' '  As  my  act  and  deed.  Sir," 

When  I  heard  these  funny  words 
Come  from  lips  so  pretty, 

This,  I  thought,  should  surely  be 
Subject  for  a  ditty. 

What !  are  ladies  slagging  it  ? 

Sure,  the  more's  the  pity  ; 
But  I've  lost  my  heart  to  her, — 

Naughty  little  Kitty. 


THE   LAST   OF   MAY. 

(in   RBPLY  to   an   invitation   dated    on   THK    1ST.) 

By  fate's  benevolent  award. 

Should  I  survive  the  day, 
I'll  drink  a  bumper  with  my  lord 

Upon  the  last  of  May. 

That  I  may  reach  that  happy  time 
The  kindly  gods  I  pray, 


THE  MOOR.  73 

For  are  not  ducks  and  peas  in  prime 
Upon  the  last  of  May  ? 

At  thirty  boards,  'twixt  now  and  then, 

My  knife  and  fork  shall  play  ; 
But  better  wine  and  better  men 

I  shall  not  meet  in  May. 

And  though,  good  friend,  with  whom  I  dine. 

Your  honest  head  is  gray, 
And,  like  this  grizzled  head  of  mine. 

Has  seen  its  last  of  May  ; 

Yet,  with  a  heart  that's  ever  kind, 

A  gentle  spirit  gay, 
You've  spring  perennial  in  your  mind, 

And  round  you  make  a  May  ! 


AH,  BLEAK  AND  BARREN  WAS  THE 
MOOR." 

Ah  !  bleak  and  barren  was  the  moor. 

Ah  I  loud  and  piercing  was  the  storm, 
The  cottage  roof  was  sheltered  sure, 

The  cottage  hearth  was  bright  and  warm — 
An  orphan-boy  the  lattice  pass'd. 

And,  as  he  marked  its  cheerful  glow. 
Felt  doubly  keen  the  midnight  blast. 

And  doubly  cold  the  fallen  snow. 

They  marked  him  as  he  onward  press'd. 

With  fainting  heart  and  weary  limb  ; 
Kind  voices  bade  him  turn  and  rest, 

And  g^entlc  faces  welcomed  him. 


74  BALLADS. 

The  dawn  is  up — the  guest  Is  gone, 
The  cottage  hearth  is  blazing  still  : 

Heaven  pity  all  poor  wanderers  lone  ! 
Hark  to  the  wind  upon  the  hill ! 


SONG  OF   THE   VIOLET. 

A  HUMBLE  flower  long  time  I  pined 

Upon  the  solitary  plain, 
And  trembled  at  the  angry  wind, 

And  shrunk  before  the  bitter  rain. 
And  oh  !  'twas  in  a  blessed  hour 

A  passing  wanderer  chanced  to  see, 
And,  pitying  the  lonely  flower, 

To  stoop  and  gather  me. 

I  fear  no  more  the  tempest  rude. 

On  dreary  heath  no  more  I  pine. 
But  left  my  cheerless  solitude, 

To  deck  the  breast  of  Caroline. 
Alas  !  our  days  are  brief  at  best. 

Nor  long,  I  fear,  will  mine  endure. 
Though  sheltered  here  upon  a  breast 

So  gentle  and  so  pure. 

It  draws  the  fragrance  from  my  leaves. 

It  robs  me  of  my  sweetest  breath, 
And  every  time  it  falls  and  heaves. 

It  warns  me  of  my  coming  death. 
But  one  I  know  would  glad  forego 

All  joys  of  life  to  be  as  I  ; 
An  hour  to  rest  on  that  sweet  breast. 

And  then,  contented,  die. 


FAIRY  DAYS.  75 


FAIRY  DAYS. 

Beside  the  old  hall-fire — upon  my  nurse's  knee, 
Of  happy  fairy  days — what  tales  were  told  to  me  ! 
I  thought  the  world  was  once — all  peopled  with 

princesses, 
And  my  heart  would  beat  to  hear — their  loves  and 

their  distresses  ; 
And  many  a  quiet  night, — in  slumber  sweet  and 

deep, 
The  pretty  fairy  people — would  visit  me  in  sleep. 

I  saw  them  in  my  dreams — come  flying  east  and 

west. 
With  wondrous  fairy  gifts — the  new-born  babe 

they  bless'd  ; 
One  has  brought  a  jewel — and  one  a  crown  of  gold. 
And  one  has  brought  a  curse — but  she  is  wrinkled 

and  old. 
The  gentle  queen  turns  pale — to  hear  those  words 

of  sin. 
But  the  king  he  only  laughs — and  bids  the  dance 

begin. 

The  babe  has  grown  to  be — the  fairest  of  the  land, 
And  rides  the  forest  green — a   hawk  upon  her 

hand. 
An  ambling  palfrey  white — a  golden  robe   and 

crown  : 
I've  seen  her  in  my  dreams — riding  up  and  down  : 
And  heard  the  ogre  laugh — as  she  fell  into  his; 

snare, 
At  the  little  tender  creature — who  wept  and  tore 

her  hair  I 


76  BALLADS. 

But  ever  when  it  seemed — her  need  was  at  the 

sorest, 
A  prince  in  shining  mail — comes  prancing  through 

the  forest, 
A   waving   ostrich-plume — a   buckler    burnished 

bright  ; 
I've   seen   him   in   my  dreams — good   sooth  !  a 

gallant  knight. 
His  lips  are  coral  red — beneath  a  dark  mustache  ; 
See  how  he  waves  his  hand — and  how  his  blue 

eyes  flash  ! 

"  Come  forth,  thou  Paynim  knight .'" — he  shouts 

in  accents  clear. 
The  giant  and  the  maid — both  tremble  his  voice 

to  hear. 
Saint    Mary   guard    him    well  ! — he    draws    his 

falchion  keen, 
The  giant  and  the  knight — are  fighting  on  the 

green. 
I  see  them  in  my  dreams — his  blade  gives  stroke 

on  stroke. 
The  giant  pants  and  reels — and  tumbles  like  an 

oak! 


With  what  a  blushing  grace — he  falls  upon  his 

knee 
And  takes  the  lady's  hand —  and  whispers,  "  You 

are  free  !" 
Ah  !  happy  childish  tales — of  knight  and  faerie  ! 
I  waken   from  my  dreams — but  there's  ne'er  a 

knight  for  me  ; 
I  waken  from  my  dreams — and  wish  that  I  could 

be 
A  child  by  the  old  hall-fire — upon  my  nurse's 

knee  ! 


POCAHONTAS.  77 


POCAHONTAS. 

Wearied  arm  and  broken  sword 
Wage  in  vain  the  desperate  fight  : 

Round  him  press  a  countless  horde, 
He  is  but  a  single  knight. 

Hark  !  a  cvj  of  triumph  shrill 

Through  the  wilderness  resounds, 
As,  with  twenty  bleeding  wounds, 

Sinks  the  warrior,  fighting  still. 

Now  they  heap  the  fatal  pyre, 

And  the  torch  of  death  they  light  ; 

Ah  !  'tis  hard  to  die  of  fire  ! 

Who  will  shield  the  captive  knight  ? 

Round  the  stake  with  fiendish  cry 
Wheel  and  dance  the  savage  crowd. 
Cold  the  victim's  mien,  and  proud, 

And  his  breast  is  bared  to  die. 

Who  will  shield  the  fearless  heart  ? 

Who  avert  the  murderous  blade  ? 
From  the  throng,  with  sudden  start. 

See  there  springs  an  Indian  maid. 
Quick  she  stands  before  the  knight : 

"  Loose  the  chain,  unbind  the  ring  ; 

I  am  daughter  of  the  king. 
And  I  claim  the  Indian  right  1" 

Dauntlessly  aside  she  flings 
Lifted  axe  and  thirsty  knife  ; 

Fondly  to  his  heart  she  clings. 
And  her  bosom  guards  his  life  ! 

In  the  woods  of  Powhattan, 
Still  'tis  told  by  Indian  fires. 
How  a  daughter  of  their  sires 

Saved  the  captive  Englishman. 


78  BALLADS. 


FROM  POCAHONTAS. 

Returning  from  the  cruel  fight 

How  pale  and  faint  appears  my  knight  ! 

He  sees  me  anxious  at  his  side  ; 

"  Why  seek,  my  love,  your  wounds  to  hide  ? 

Or  deem  your  English  girl  afraid 

To  emulate  the  Indian  maid?" 

Be  mine  my  husband's  grief  to  cheer, 
In  peril  to  be  ever  near  ; 
Whate'er  of  ill  or  woe  betide, 
To  bear  it  clinging  at  his  side  ; 
The  poisoned  stroke  of  fate  to  ward, 
His  bosom  with  my  own  to  guard  : 
Ah  !  could  it  spare  a  pang  to  his. 
It  could  not  know  a  purer  bliss  ! 
'Twould  gladden  as  it  felt  the  smart, 
And  thank  the  hand  that  flung  the  dart ! 


THE   LEGEND  OF   ST.    SOPHIA  OF 
KIOFF. 

AN  EPIC  POEM,  IN  TWENTY  BOOKS. 


[The  poet  describes  the  city  and  spelling  of  Kiovv,  KiofTi 
or  Kiova.] 

A  THOUSAND  years  ago,  or  more, 
A  city  filled  with  burghers  stout. 
And  girt  with  ramparts  round  about, 

Stood  on  the  rocky  Dnieper  shore. 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  79 

In  armor  bright,  by  day  and  night, 

The  sentries  they  paced  to  and  fro. 
Well  guarded    and  walled  was    this    town,  and 
called 
By  different  names,  I'd  have  you  to  know  ; 
For  if  you  looks  in  the  g'ography  books, 
In  those  dictionaries  the  name  it  varies, 
And  they  write  it  off  Kieff  or  Kioff, 

Kiova  or  Kiow. 

II. 

[Its  buildings,  public  v/orks,  and  ordinances,  religious 
and  civil. — The  poet  shows  how  a  certain  priest  dwelt 
at  KiofF,  a  godly  clergyman,  and  one  lliat  preached 
rare  good  sermons.] 

Thus  guarded  without  by  wall  and  redoubt, 

Kiova  within  was  a  place  of  renown, 
With  more  advantages  than  in  those  dark  ages 
Were  commonly  known  to  belong  to  a  town. 
There  were  places    and  squares,  and  each  year 

four  fairs. 
And  regular  aldermen  and  regular  lord  mayors  ; 
And  streets,  and  alleys,  and  a  bishop's  palace  ; 
And  a  church  with  clocks  for  the  orthodox — 
With  clocks  and  with  spires,  as  religion  desires  ; 
And  beadles  to  whip  the  bad  little  boys 
Over  their  poor  little  corduroys. 
In  service-time  when  they  didnt  make  a  noise  ; 
And  a  chapter  and  dean,  and  a  cathedral-green 
With  ancient  trees,  underneath  whose  shades 
Wandered  nice  young  nursery-maids. 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  ding-ding-a-ring-ding, 
The  bells  they  made  a  merry  merry  ring, 
From  the  tall  tall  steeple  ;  and  all  the  people 
(Except  the  Jews)  came  and  filled  the  pews — 
Poles,  Russians  and  Germans, 
To  hear  the  sermons 


8o  .    BALLADS. 

Which  Hyacinth    preached  to  those  Germans 
and  Poles 
For  the  safety  of  their  souls. 

III. 
[How  this  priest  was  short  and  fat  of  body  ;] 

A  worthy  priest  he  was  and  a  stout — 
You've  seldom  looked  on  such  a  one  ; 

For,  though  he  fasted  thrice  in  a  week. 

Yet  nevertheless  his  skin  was  sleek  ; 

His  waist  it  spanned  two  yards  about. 
And  he  weighed  a  score  of  stone. 

IV. 
[And  like  unto  the  author  of  "  Plymley's  Letter-,."  ] 

A  worthy  priest  for  fasting  and  prayer 

And  mortification  most  deserving, 
And  as  for  preaching  beyond  compare  : 
He'd  exert  his  powers  for  three  or  four  hours 
With  greater  pith  than  Sydney  Smith 

Or  the  Reverend  Edward  Irving. 


[Of  what  convent  he  was  prior,  and  when  the    convent 
was  built.] 

He  was  the  prior  of  Saint  Sophia 

(A  Cockney  rhyme,  but  no  better  I  know) — 

Of  St.  Sophia,  that  Church  in  Kiow, 

Built  by  missionaries  I  can't  tell  when  ; 
Who  by  their  discussions  converted  the  Russians, 

And  made  them  Christian  men. 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC. 


[Of  Saint  Sophia  of  Kioff  ;  and  how  her  statue  miracu- 
lously travelled  thither.  ] 

Sainted  Sophia  (so  the  legend  vows) 
With  special  favor  did  regard  this  house  ; 

And  to  uphold  her  converts'  new  devotion 
Her  statue  (needing  but  her  legs  for  Iier  ship) 
Walks  of  itself  across  the  German  Ocean  ; 
And  of  a  sudden  perches 
In  this  the  best  of  churches, 
Whither  all  Kiovites   come  and  pay  it  grateful 
worship. 

vri. 

[And  how  Kioff  should  have  been  a  happy  city  ;  but  that] 

Thus  with  her  patron-saints  and  pious  preachers 
Recorded  here  in  catalogue  precise, 

A  goodly  city,  worthy  magistrates, 

You  would  have  thought  in  all  the  Russian  states 

The  citizens  the  happiest  of  all  creatures,— 
The  town  itself  a  perfect  Paradise. 


[Certain  wicked  Co'><;ar:ks  did  besiege  it,  miirderinf;  the 
citizens,  until  they  agreed  to  pay  a  tribute  yearly. — 
How  they  paid  the  tribute,  and  then  suddenly  refused 
it,  to  the  wonder  of  the  Cossack  envoy. — Of  a  m'sjhty 
gallant  speech  that  the  lord-mayor  m.ide,  exhortiu^ 
the  burghers  to  pay  no  longer.] 

No,  alas  !  this  well-built  city 

Was  in  a  perpetual  fidget ; 
For  the  Tartars,  without  pity. 

Did  remorselessly  besiege  it. 

Tartars  fierce,  with  swords  and  sabres, 
Huns  and  Turks,  and  such  as  these. 


82  BALLADS. 

Envied  much  their  peaceful  neighbars 
By  the  blue  Borysthenes. 

Down  they  came,  these  ruthless  Russians, 
From  their  steppes,  and  woods,  and  fens. 

For  to  levy  contributions 
On  the  peaceful  citizens. 

Winter,  Summer,  Spring,  and  Autumn, 
Down  they  came  to  peaceful  Kioff, 

Killed  the  burghers  when  they  caught  'em. 
If  their  lives  they  would  not  buy  off. 

Till  the  city,  quite  confounded 

By  the  ravages  they  made. 
Humbly  with  their  chief  compounded. 

And  a  yearly  tribute  paid. 

Which  (because  their  courage  lax  was) 
They  discharged  while  they  were  able  : 

Tolerated  thus  the  tax  was, 
Till  it  grew  intolerable. 

And  the  Calmuc  envoy  sent. 
As  before  to  take  their  dues  all. 

Got,  to  his  astonishment, 
A  unanimous  refusal ! 

"  Men  of  Kioff  !"  thus  courageous 

Did  the  stout  lord-mayor  harangue  them, 

"  Wherefore  pay  these  sneaking  wages 

To  the  hectoring  Russians  ?  hang  them  ! 

"  Hark  !     I  hear  the  awful  crj'  of 
Our  forefathers  in  their  graves  ; 

"  '  Fight,  yc  citizens  of  Kioff  ! 

Kioff  was  not  made  for  slaves.' 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  83 

"  All  too  long  have  ye  betrayed  her  ; 
Rouse,  ye  men  and  aldermen, 
Send  the  insolent  invader — 
Send  him  star\'ing  back  again." 


IX. 

[Of  their  thanks  and  heroic  resolves. — They  dismiss  the 
envoy,  nml  set  about  drilling. — Of  the  city  guard  : 
viz.  militia,  dragoons,  and  bombardiers,  and  their 
commanders. — Of  the  majors  and  captains,  the  fortifi- 
cations and  artillery. — Of  the  conduct  of  the  .ictors  and 
the  clergy. — Of  the  ladies  ;  and,  finally,  of  the  taylors.] 

lie  spoke  and  he  sat  down  ;  the  people  of  the 
town. 
Who  were  fired  with  a  brave  emulation. 
Now  rose  with   one   accord,  and  voted   thanks 
unto  the  lord- 
Mayor  for  his  oration  : 

The  envoy  they  dismissed,  never  placing  in  his 
fist 
So  much  as  a  single  shilling  ; 
And  all  with  courage  fired,  as  his  lordship  he 
desired. 
At  once  set  about  their  drilling. 

Then  every  city  ward  established  a  guard. 

Diurnal  and  nocturnal : 
Militia  volunteers,  light  dragoons,  and  bombar- 
diers, 

\Vith  an  alderman  for  colonel. 

There  was  muster  and  roll-calls,  and  repairing 
city  walls. 
And  filling  up  of  fosses  : 


84  BALLADS. 

And  the  captains  and  the  majors,  so  gallant  and 
courageous, 
A-riding  about  on  their  hosses. 

To  be  guarded  at  all  hours  they  built  themselves 
watch-towers, 
With  every  tower  a  man  on  ; 
And  surely  and  secure,  each  from  out  his  embra- 
sure, 
Looked  down  the  iron  cannon  ! 

A  battle-song  was  writ  for  the  theatre,  where  it 

Was  sung  with  vast  energy 
And  rapturous  applause  ;  and  besides,  the  public 
cause 

W^as  supported  by  the  clergy. 

The  pretty  ladies'-maids  were  pinning  of  cock- 
ades, 
And  tying  on  of  sashes  ; 
And  dropping   gentle  tears,   while  their    lovers 
bluster'd  fierce 
About  gun-shot  and  gashes  ; 

The  ladies  took  the  hint,  and  all  day  were  scrap- 
ing lint. 
As  became  their  softer  genders  ; 
And  got  bandages  and  beds  for  the  limbs  and  for 
the  heads 
Of  the  city's  brave  defenders. 

The  men,  both  young  and  old,  felt  resolute  and 

bold. 
And  panted  hot  for  glory  ; 
Even  the  tailors  'gan  to  brag,  and  embroidered 

on  their  flag, 

"  AUT   WINCERE    AUT    MORI." 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  85 


[Of  the  Cossack  chief — his  stratagem  ;  and  the  burghers' 
sillie  victorie. — What  prisoners  they  took,  and  how 
cnnceited  they  were  of  the  Cossack  chief — his  orders  ; 
and  how  lie  feigned  a  retreat. — The  warder  proclayms 
the  Cosaacks'  retreat,  and  the  citic  greatly  rejoyccs.] 

Seeing  the  city's  resolute  condition, 

The  Cossack  chief,  too  cunninjr  to  despise  it, 
Said  to  himself,  "  Not  having  ammunition 
Wherewith  to  batter  the  place  in  proper  form, 
Some  of  these  nights  I'll  carry  it  by  storm. 

And  sudden  escalade  it  or  surprise  it. 

"  Let's  see,  however,  if  the  cits  stand  firmish." 

He  rode  up  to  the  city  gales  ;  for  answers. 
Out  rushed  an  eager  troop  of  the  town  i'UU\ 
vVnd  straightway  did  begin  a  gallant  skirmish  : 
The  Cossack  hereupon  did  sound  retreat. 
Leaving  the  victory  with  the  city  lancers. 

They  took  two  prisoners  and  as  many  horses. 
And  the  whole  town  grew  quickly  so  elate 

With  this  small  victory  of  their  virgin  forces. 

That  they  did  deem  their  privates  and  command- 
ers 

So  many  Cresars,  Pompej's,  Alexanders, 
Napoleons,  or  Fredericks  the  Great. 

And  puffing  with  inordinate  conceit 

They  utterly  despised  these  Cossack  thieves  ; 

And  thought  the  ruffians  easier  to  beat 

Than  porters  carpets  think,  or  ushers  boys. 

Meanwhile,  a  sly  spectator  of  their  joys. 
The  Cossack  captain  giggled  in  his  sleeves. 

"  Whene'er  you  meet  yon  stupid  city  hogs" 
(He  bade  his  troops  precise  this  order  keep), 


86  BALLADS. 

"  Don't  stand  a  moment — run  away,  you  dogs  !" 
'Twas  done  ;  and  when  they  met  the  town  bat- 
talions, 
The  Cossacks,  as  if  frightened  at  their  valiance, 
Turned  tail,  and  bolted  like  so  many  sheep. 

They  fled,  obedient  to  their  captain's  order  ; 
And   now  this  bloodless  siege  a  month   had 
lasted, 
When,  viewing  the  country  round,  the  city  warder 

(Who,  like  a  faithful  weathercock,  did  perch 
Upon  the  steeple  of  St.  Sophy's  church). 

Sudden  his  trumpet  took,  and  a  mighty  blast 
he  blasted. 

Ilis  voice  it  might  be  heard  through  all  the  streets 

(He  was  a  warder  wondrous  strong  in  lung), 
"  Victory,  victory  !  the  foe  retreats  !" 
"  The  foe  retreats  !"  each  cries  to  each  he  meets  ; 
"  The  foe  retreats  !"  each  in  his  turn  repeats. 
Gods  !  how  the  guns  did  roar,  and  how  the  joy- 
bells  rung  ! 

Arming  in  haste  his  gallant  city  lancers. 

The  mayor,  to  learn  if  true  the  news  might  be, 
A  league  or  two  out  issued  with  his  prancers. 
The  Cossacks  (something  had  given  their  cour- 
age a  damper) 
Hastened  their  flight,  and  'gan  like  mad  to  scam- 
per ; 
Blessed  be  all  the  saints,  Kiova  town  was  free  ! 


[I'he  manner  of  ihe  citic's  rtjoycinus,  and  its  impiety. — 
How  tlie  priest,  Hy.iciiith,  waited  at  church,  and 
nobody  came  thither.] 

Now,  puffed  with  pride,  the  mayor  grew  vain. 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  87 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  ho 

slew  the  slain. 
'Tis  true  he  might  amuse  himself  thus, 
And  not  be  very  murderous  ; 
For  as  of  those  who  to  death  were  done 
The  number  was  exactly  none. 
His  lordship,  in  his  soul's  elation. 
Did  take  a  bloodless  recreation — 
Going  home  again,  he  did  ordain 
A  very  splendid  cold  collation 
For  the  magistrates  and  the  corporation  ; 
Likewise  a  grand  illumination 
For  the  amusement  of  the  nation. 
That  night  the  theatres  were  free, 
The  conduits  they  ran  Malvoisie  ; 
Each  house  that  night  did  beam  with  light 
And  sound  with  mirth  and  jollity  : 
But  shame,  O  shame  !  not  a  soul  in  the  town. 
Now  the  city  was  safe  and  the  Cossacks  liown. 
Ever   thought  of   the    bountiful    saint   by  whose 
care 

The  town  had  been  rid  of  these  terrible  Turks — 
Said  even  a  prayer  to  that  patroness  fair 

For  these  her  wondrous  works  ! 
Lord  Hyacinth  waited,  the  meekest  of  priors — 
He  waited  at  church  with  the  rest  of  his  friars  ; 
He  went  there  at  noon  and  he  waited  till  ten. 
Expecting  in  vain  the  lord-mayor  and  his  men. 

He  waited  and  waited  from  mid-day  to  dark  ; 
But  in  vain — you  might  search  through  the  whole 

of  the  church. 
Not  a  layman,  alas  !  to  the  city's  disgrace, 
From  mid-day  to  dark  showed  his  nose  in  the 
place. 

The  pew-woman,  organist,  beadle,  and  clerk. 
Kept  away  from  their  work,  and  were  dancing 
like  mad 


88  BALLADS. 

Away  in  the  streets  with  the  other  mad  people. 
Not  thinking  to  pray,  but  to  guzzle  and  tipple 
Wherever  the  drink  might  be  had. 


[How  he  went  forth  to  bid  them  to  prsyer. — How  the 
grooms  and  lackeys  jeered  him. — And  the  mayor, 
mayoress,  and  aldermen,  be!n^  tipsie,  refused  to  go  to 
cnurch.] 

Amidst  this  din  and  revelry  throughout  the  city 

roaring, 
The  silver  moon  rose  silently,  and  high  in  heaven 

soaring  ; 
Prior    Hyacinth   was  fervently  upon    his    knees 

adoring  : 
' '  Toward    my  precious  patroness  this   conduct 

sure  unfair  is  ; 
I  cannot  think,  I  must  confess,  what   keeps  the 

dignitaries 
And  our  good  mayor  away,  unless  some  business 

them  contraries." 

He  puts  his  long  white  mantle  on,  and   forth  the 

prior  sallies — 
(His   pious  thoughts  were  bent  upon  good  deeds 

and  not  on  malice): 
Heavens  !  how    the    banquet    lights   they  shone 

about  the  mayor's  palace  ! 
About  the  hall  the  scullions  ran  with  meats  both 

fresh  and  potted  ; 
The  pages  came  with  cup  and  can,  all  for  the 

guests  allotted  ; 
Ah,  how  they  jeered  that  good  fat  man  as  up  the 

stairs  he  trotted  ! 

He  entered  in  the  ante-rooms  where  sat  the  may- 
or's court  in  ; 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  89 

He  found  a  pack  of  drunken  grooms  a-dicing  and 

a-sporting  ; 

The  horrid  wine  and  'bacco  fumes,  they  set  the 
prior  a-snorting  ! 

The  prior  thought  he'd  speak  about  their  sins 
before  he  went  hence, 

And  histily  began  to  shout  of  sin  and  of  repent- 
ance ; 

The  rogues,  they  kicked  the  prior  out  before  he'd 
done  a  sentence  ! 


And  having  got  no  portion  small  of  buffeting 
and  tussHng, 

At  last  he  reached  the  banquet-hall,  where  sat 
the  mayor  a-guzzling, 

And  by  his  side  his  lady  tall  dressed  out  in  whito 
sprig  muslin. 

Around  the  table  in  a  ring  the  guests  were  drink- 
ing heavy  ; 

They  drunk  the  church,  and  drunk  the  king,  and 
the  army  and  the  navy  ; 

In  fact  they'd  toasted  everything.  The  prior 
said,  "  God  save  ye  !" 

The  mayor  cried,  "  Bring  a  silver  cup — there's 

one  upon  the  buffet ; 
And,   Prior,   have   the   venison   up — it's    capital 

rechauffe. 
And  so,  Sir   Priest,  you've  come  to  sup  ?     And 

pray  you,  how's  Saint  Sophy  ?" 
The  prior's  face  quite  red  was  grown  with  horror 

and  with  anger  ; 
He  flung  the  proffered  goblet   down — it  made  a 

hideous  clangor  ; 
And  'gan  a-preaching  with  a  frown — he    was  a 

fierce  haranguer. 


QO  BALLADS. 

He  tried  the  mayor  and  aldermen — they  all  set  up 
a-jeering  : 

He  tried  the   common-councilmen — they  too  be- 
gan a-snecring  : 

He  turned  toward  the  may'rcss  then,  and    hoped 
to  get  a  hearing. 

He  knelt  and  seized  her  dinner-dress,  made  of  the 
muslin  snowy, 

"  To  church,  to  church,  my  sweet  mistress  !" 
he  cried  ;   "  the  way  I'll  show  ye." 

Alas,  the   lady-mayoress   fell    back   as  drunk  as 
Chloe  ! 


[How  the  prior  went  back  alonf,  and  shut  himself  into 
Saint  Sophia's  chapel  with  his  brethren.] 

Out  from  this  dissolute  and  drunken  court 

Went  the  good  prior,  his  eyes  with  weeping 
dim  : 
He  tried  the  people  of  a  meaner  sort — 
They  too,  alas,  were  bent  upon  their  sport, 
And  not  a  single  soul  would  follow  him  ! 
But   all   were  swigging  schnapps  and   guzzling 
beer. 

He  found  the  cits,   their  daughters,  sons,   and 

spouses. 
Spending  the  live-long  night  in  fierce  carouses  : 

Alas,  unthinking  of  the  danger  near  ! 
One  or  two  sentinels  the  ramparts  guarded, 

The  rest  were  sharing  in  the  general  feast : 
"  God  wot,  our  tipsy  town  is  poorly  warded  ; 

Sweet  Saint  Sophia  help  us  !"  cried  the  priest. 

Alone  he  entered  the  cathedral  gate. 

Careful  he  locked  the  mighty  oaken  door  ; 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  9 1 

Within  his  company  of  monks  did  wait, 
A  dozen  poor  old  pious  men — no  more. 
Oh,  but  it  grieved  the  gentle  prior  sore, 

To    think  of    those  lost  souls,  given  up  to  drink 
and  fate  ! 

The  mighty  outer  gate  well  barred  and  fast. 
The  poor  old  friars  stirred  their  poor  old  bones, 
And  pattering  swiftly  on  the  damp  cold  stones. 

They  through  the  solitary  chancel  passed. 

The  chancel  walls  looked  black  and  dim  and  vast, 
And  rendered,  ghost-like,  melancholy  tones. 

Onward  the  fathers  sped,  till  coming  nigh  a 
Small  iron  gate,  the  which  they  entered  quick  at. 
They  locked  and  double-locked  the  inner  wicket 

And  stood  within  the  chapel  of  Sophia. 

Vain  were  it  to  describe  this  sainted  place. 
Vain  to  describe  that  celebrated  trophy. 
The  venerable  statue  of  Saint  Sophy, 

Which  formed  its  chiefest  ornament  and  grace. 

Here  the   good   prior,   his  personal   griefs   and 
sorrows 
In  his  extreme  devotion  quickly  merging. 
At  once  began  to  pray  with  voice  sonorous  ; 
The  other  friars  joined  in  pious  chorus. 

And    passed   the   night  in    singing,    praying, 

scourging. 
In  honor  of  Sophia,  that  sweet  virgin. 


[The  episode  of  Sneezoff  and  Katinka. — How  the   sentrie 
Sneezoff  was  surprised  and  slayn.] 

Leaving  thus  the  pious  priest  in 
Humble  penitence  and  prayer, 


92  BALLADS. 

And  the  greedy  cits  a-feasting, 
Let  us  to  the  walls  repair. 

Walking  by  the  sentr}-boxes, 
Underneath  the  silver  moon, 

Lo  !  the  sentrj'  boldly  cocks  his — = 
Boldly  cocks  his  musketoon. 

Sneezoff  was  his  designation, 
Fair-haired  boy,  forever  pitied  ; 

For  to  take  his  cruel  station, 
He  but  now  Katinka  quitted. 

Poor  in  purse  were  both,  but  rich  in 
Tender  love's  delicious  plenties  ; 

She  a  damsel  of  the  kitchen, 
He  a  haberdasher's  'prentice. 

'Tinka,  maiden  tender-hearted, 
Was  dissolved  in  tearful  fits. 

On  that  fatal  night  she  parted 

From  her  darling,  fair-haired  Fritz. 

Warm  her  soldier  lad  she  wrapt  in 
Comforter  and  muffettee  ; 

Called  him  "general"  and  "  captain," 
Though  a  simple  private  he. 

"On  your  bosom  wear  this  plaster, 
'Twill  defend  you  from  the  cold  ; 

In  your  pipe  smoke  this  canaster — 
Smuggled  'tis,  my  love,  and  old. 

"  All  the  night,  my  love,  I'll  miss  you. 

Thus  she  spoke  ;  and  from  the  door 
Fair-haired  Sneezoff  made  his  issue, 

To  return,  alas,  no  more. 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  93 

He  it  is  who  calmly  walks  his 

Walk  beneath  the  silver  moon  ; 
He  it  is  who  boldly  cocks  his 

Detonating  musketoon. 

He  the  bland  canaster  puffing, 

As  upon  his  round  he  paces, 
Sudden  sees  a  ragamuffin 

Clambering  swiftly  up  the  glacis. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?"  exclaims  the  sentr}' ; 

' '  When  the  sun  has  once  gone  down 
No  one  ever  makes  an  entr}' 

Into  this  here  fortified  town  !" 

Shouted  thus  the  watchful  Sneezoff ; 

But,  ere  any  one  replied, 
Wretched  youth  !  he  fired  his  piece  off, 

Started,  staggered,  groaned,  and  died  ! 


XV. 

[How  the  Cossacks  rushed  in  suddenly  and  tooTc  ihe  citle. 
— Of  the  Cossack  troops,  and  of  their  manner  of 
burning,  murdering,  and  ravishing. — How  they  burned 
the  whole  citie  down,  save  the  church,  whereof  the 
bells  began  to  ring.] 

Ah,  full  well  might  the  sentinel  crj-,  "  Who  goes 

there  ?" 
But  echo  was  frightened  too  much  to  declare. 
Who  goes  there  ?  who  goes  there  ?  Can  any  one 

swear 
To  the  number  of  sands  sttr  ks  hords  de  la  mer. 
Or  the  whiskers  of  D'Orsay  count  down  to  a  hair  ? 
As  well  might  you  tell  of  the  sands  the  amount. 
Or  number  each  hair  in  each  curl  of  the  Count, 
As  ever  proclaim  the  number  and  name 


94  BALLADS. 

Of  the  hundreds  and  thousands  that  up  the  wall 

came  ! 
Down,  down  the  knaves  poured  witli  fire  and  with 

sword  : 
There  were  thieves  from  the  Danube  and  rogues 

from  the  Don  ; 
There  were  Turks  and  Wallacks,  and    shouting 

Cossacks  ; 
Of  all   nations  and   regions,   and    tongues   and 

religions — 
Jew,  Christian,  idolater,  Frank,  Mussulman  : 
Ah,  a  horrible  sight  was  Kioff  that  night  ! 
The  gates  were  all  taken — no  chance  e'en  of  flight ; 
And  with  torch  and  with  axe  the  bloody  Cossacks 
Went  hither  and  thither  a-hunting  in  packs  : 
They  slashed  and  they  slew  both  Christian  and 

Jew- 
Women  and  children,  they  slaughtered  them  too. 
Some,  saving  their  throats,  plunged  into  the  moats, 
Or  the  river — but  oh,  they  had  burned  all  the 

boats  ! 

***** 

But  here  let  us  pause — for  I  can't  pursue  further 
This  scene  of  rack,  ravishment,  ruin,  and  murther. 
Too  well  did  the  cunning  old  Cossack  succeed  ! 
His  plan  of  attack  was  successful  indeed  ! 
The  night  was  his  own — the  town  it  was  gone  ; 
'Twas  a  heap  still  a-burning  of  timber  and  stone. 
One  building  alone  had  escaped  from  the  fires, 
Saint  Sophy's  fair  church,  with  its  steeples  and 
spires. 

Calm,  stately,  and  white, 

It  stood  in  the  light  ; 
And  as  if  'twould  defy  all  the  conqueror's  power, — 

As  if  naught  had  occurred, 

Might  clearly  be  heard 
The  chimes  ringing  soberly  every  half-hour  ! 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  95 

XVI, 

[How  the  Cossack  chief  bade  ihein  burn  the  church  tno. — 
How  they  stormed  it  :  and  of  Hyacinth,  his  anger 
thereat.] 

The  city  was  defunct — silence  succeeded 

Unto  its  last  fierce  agonizing  yells  ; 
And  then  it  was  the  conqueror  first  heeded 

The  sound  of  these  calm  bells. 
Furious  toward  his  aides-de-camp  he  turns. 

And  (speaking  as  if  Byron's  works  he  knew) 
"Villains  !"  he  fiercely  cries,  "  the  city  burns. 

Why  not  the  temple  too  ? 
Burn  me  yon  church,  and  murder  all  within  !" 

The  Cossacks  thundered  at  the  outer  door  ; 
And  Father  Hyacinth,  who  heard  the  din, 
(And  thought  himself  and  brethren  in  distress. 
Deserted  by  their  lady  patroness) 

Did  to  her  statue  turn,  and  thus  his  woes  out- 
pour. 

XVII. 

[His  prayer  to  the  Saint  Sophia. — Tlie  statue  suddeniie 
speaks;  but  is  interrupted  by  the  breaking  in  of  the 
Cossacks. — Of  Hyacinth,  his  courageous  address; 
and  preparation  for  dying. — Saint  Sophia,  her  speech. 
— She  gets  on  the  prior's  shoulder  straddleback,  and 
bids  him  run.] 

■'And  is  it  thus,  O  falsest  of  the  saints, 

Thou  hearest  our  complaints  ? 
Tell  me,  did  ever  my  attachment  falter 

To  serve  thy  altar  ? 
Was  not  thy  name,  ere  ever  I  did  sleep, 

The  last  upon  my  lip  ? 
Was  not  thy  name  the  very  first  that  broke 

From  me  when  I  awoke  ? 
Have  I  not  tried  with  fasting,  flogging,  penance, 

And  mortified  countenance 


96  BALLADS. 

For  to  find  favor,  Sophy,  in  thy  sight  ? 

And  lo  !  this  night. 
Forgetful  of  my  prayers  and  thine  own  promise, 

Thou  turnest  from  us  ; 
Lettest  the  heathen  enter  in  our  city. 

And.  without  pity. 
Murder  our  Ijurgliers,  seize  upon  their  spouses, 

Burn  down  their  houses  ! 
Is  such  a  breach  of  faith  to  be  endured  ? 

See  what  a  lurid 
Light  from  the  insolent  invader's  torches 

Shines  on  your  porches  ! 
E'en  now,  with    thundering   battering-ram   and 
hammer 
And  hideous  clamor, 
With    axemen,    swordsmen,    pikemen,    billmen, 
bowmen. 
The  conquering  foemen, 
O  Sophy  !  beat  your  gate  about  your  ears, 

Alas !  and  here's 
A  humble  company  of  pious  men, 

Like  muttons  in  a  pen. 
Whose  souls  shall  quickly  from  their  bodies  be 
thrusted. 
Because  in  you  they  trusted. 
Do  you  not  know  the  Calmuc  chief's  desires — 

Kill  all  the  friars  ! 
And  you,  of  all  the  saints  most  false  and  fickle, 

Leave  us  in  this  abominable  pickle." 
"  Rash  Hyacinthus  !" 

(Here  to  the  astonishment  of  all  her  backers. 
Saint  Sophy,  opening  wide  her  wooden  jaws. 
Like  to  a  pair  of  German  walnut-crackers. 
Began),  "  I  did  not  think  you  had  been  thus, — 
O  monk  of  little  faith  !     Is  it  because 
A  rascal  scum  of  filthy  Cossack  heathen 
Besiege  our  town,  that  you  distrust  in  Jiie,  then  ? 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  97 

Think'st  thou  that  I,  who  in  a  former  day- 
Did  walk  across  the  sea  of  Marmora 
(Not  mentioning,  for  shortness,  other  seas), — 
That  I,  who  skimmed  the  broad  Borysthenes, 
Without  so  much  as  wetting  of  my  toes, 
Am  frightened  at  a  set  of  men  like  those? 
I  have  a  mind  to  leave  you  to  your  fate  : 
Such  cowardice  as  this  my  scorn  inspires." 

Saint  Sophy  was  here 

Cut  short  in  her  words, — 
For  at  this  very  moment  in  tumbled  the  gate, 
And  with  a  wild  cheer, 
And  a  clashing  of  swords. 
Swift  through  the  church  porches, 
With  a  waving  of  torches, 
And  a  shriek  and  a  yell 
Like  the  devils  of  hell. 
With  pike  and  with  axe 
In  rushed  the  Cossacks, — 

In  rushed  the  Cossacks,  crying,  "  Murder  the 
FRIARS  !" 

Ah  !  what  a  thrill  felt  Hyacinth. 

When  he  heard  that  villainous  shout  Calmuc  ! 
Now,  thought  he,  my  trial  beginneth  ; 

Saints,  O  give  me  courage  and  pluck  ! 
•'  Courage,  boys,  'tis  useless  to  funk  !" 

Thus  unto  the  friars  he  began  : 
"  Never  let  it  be  said  that  a  monk 

Is  not  likewise  a  gentleman. 
Though  the  patron  saint  of  the  church, 

Spite  of  all  that  we've  done  and  we've  pray'd. 
Leaves  us  wickedly  here  in  the  lurch, 

Hang  it,  gentlemen,  who's  afraid  ?" 

As  thus  the  gallant  Hyacinthus  spoke. 
He,  with  an  air  as  easy  and  as  free  as 


98  BALLADS. 

If  the  quick-coming  murder  were  a  joke, 
Folded  his  robes  around  his  sides,  and  took 
Place  under  sainted  Sophy's  legs  of  oak. 
Like  Caesar  at  the  statue  of  Pompeius. 
The  monks  no  leisure  had  about  to  look 
(Each  being  absorbed  in  his  particular  case), 
Else  had  they  seen  with  what  celestial  grace 
A  wooden  smile  stole  o'er  the  saint's  mahogany 
face. 

"  Well  done,  well  done,  Hyacinthus,  my  son  !" 

Thus  spoke  the  sainted  statue. 
"  Though  you  doubted  me  in  the  hour  of  need. 
And  spoke  of  me  very  rude  indeed. 
You  deserve  good  luck  for  showing  such  pluck. 

And  I  won't  be  angry  at  you." 

The  monks  by-standing,  one  and  all. 
Of  this  wondrous  scene  beholders, 
To  this  kind  promise  listened  content, 
And  couldn't  contain  their  astonishment, 
When  Saint  Sophia  moved  and  went 
Down  from  her  wooden  pedestal. 

And  twisted  her  legs,  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs, 
Round  Hyacinthus'  shoulders  ! 

"  Ho  I  forward,"  cries  Sophy,  "there's  no  time 

for  waiting. 
The  Cossacks  are  breaking  the  very  last  gate  in  : 
See,  the  glare  of  their  torches  shines  red  through 

the  grating  ; 
We've  still  the  back  door,  and   two  minutes 

or  more. 
Now,  boys,  now  or  never,  we  must  make  for  the 

river. 
For  we  only  are  safe  on  the  opposite  shore. 
Run  swiftly  to-day,  lads,  if  ever  you  ran, — 
Put  out  your  best  leg,  Hyacinthus,  my  man  ; 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.  99 

And  I'll  lay  five  to  two  that  you  carry  us  through, 
Only  scamper  as  fast  as  you  can." 

XVIII. 

[He  runneth,  and  the  Tartars  after  him. — How  the  fri- 
ars sweated,  and  the  pursuers  fixed  arrows  into  their 
tayls.^How,  at  the  last  gasp,  the  friars  won,  and 
jumped  into  Borysthenes  fluvius.] 

Away  went  the  priest    through   the    little    back 
door, 

And  light  on  his  shoulders  the  image  he  bore  : 
The  honest  old  priest  was  not  punished    the 
least. 

Though  the   image  was  eight  feet,  and  he  meas- 
ured four. 

Away  went  the  prior,  and  the  monks  at  his  tail 

Went  snorting,  and  puffing,  and  panting  full  sail; 
And   just  as   the  last  at   the    back   door    had 
passed. 

In  furious  hunt  behold  at  the  front 

The  Tartars  so  fierce,  with  their  terrible  cheers  ; 

With   axes,    and    halberts,    and    muskets,    and 
spears, 

With  torches  a-flaming  the  chapel  now  came  in. 

They  tore  up  the  mass-book,  they  stamped  on  the 
psalter, 

They   pulled  the  gold    crucifix   down    from    the 
altar  ; 

The  vestments  they  burned  with  their  blasphem- 
ous fires, 

And  many   cried,  "Curse  on    them  !  where  are 
the  friars  ?" 

When  loaded  with  plunder,  yet  seeking  for  more. 

One  chanced  to  fling  open  the  little  back  door, 

Spied  out  the  friars'  white  robes  and  long  shad- 
ows 

In  the  moon,  scampering  over  the  meadows. 


I OO  BALLADS. 

And  stopped  the  Cossacks  in  the  midst  of  their 
arsons, 

By  crying  out  lustily,  "There  go  the  par- 
sons !" 

With  a  whoop  and  a  yell,  and  a  scream  and  a 
shout. 

At  once  the  whole  murderous  body  turned  out  ; 

And  swift  as  the  hawk  pounces  down  on  the 
pigeon. 

Pursued  the  poor  short-winded  men  of  religion. 

When  the  sound  of   that  cheering   came  to  the 
monks'  hearing, 
O  Heaven  !  how  the  poor  fellows  panted  and 
blew  ! 
At  fighting  not  cunning,  unaccustomed  to  run- 
ning, 
When  the   Tartars   came  up,  what  the  deuce 
should  they  do  ? 
' '  They'll  make  us  all  martyrs,  those  blood-thirsty 
Tartars  !" 
Quoth  fat  Father  Peter  to  fat  Father  Hugh. 
The  shouts  they  came  clearer,  the  foe  they  drew 
nearer  ; 
Oh,  how  the  bolts  whistled,  and  how  the  lights 
shone  ! 
"  I  cannot  get  further,  this  running  is  murther  ; 
Come  carry  me,  some  one  !"  cried  big  Father 
John. 
And  even  the  statue  grew  frightened  :   "  Od  rat 
you  !" 
It  cried,  "Mr.  Prior,  I  wish  you'd  get  on  !" 
On  tugged  the  good  friar,  but  nigher  and  nigher 
Appeared  the  fierce  Russians,  with  sword    and 

with  lire. 
On  tugged  the  good  prior  at  Saint  Sopliy's  de- 
sire,— 


THE  GREAT  COSSACK  EPIC.        lOl 

A  scramble  through  bramble,  through  mud,  and 

through  mire, 
The  swift  arrows'  whizziness  causing  a  dizziness. 
Nigh  done  his  business,  fit  to  expire. 
Father  Hj-acinth  tugged,   and  the    monks    they 

tugged  after  : 
The  foemen  pursued  with  a  horrible  laughter, 
And   hurl'd  their  long   spears   round    the   poor 

brethren's  ears 
So  true,  that  next  day  in  the  coat  of  each  priest, 
Though   never  a  wound  was  given,   there   were 

found 

A  dozen  arrows  at  least. 

Now  the  chase  seemed  at  its  worst, 
Prior  and  monks  were  fit  to  burst  ; 
Scarce  you  knew  the  which  was  first, 

Or  pursuers  or  pursued  ; 
When  the  statue,  by  Heaven's  grace. 
Suddenly  did  change  the  face 
Of  this  interesting  race, 

As  a  saint,  sure,  only  could. 

For  as  the  jockey  who  at  Epsom  rides. 

When  that  his    steed  is  spent    and    punished 
sore, 
Diggeth  his  heels  into  the  courser's  sides. 

And  thereby  makes  him  run  one  or  two  fur- 
longs more  ; 
Even   thus,   betwixt   the    eighth   rib   and   the 
ninth. 
The  saint  rebuked  the  prior,  that  weary  creeper  ; 
Fresh    strength  into  his  limbs  her    kicks  im- 
parted, 
One  bound  he  made,  as  gay  as  when  he  started. 
Yes,  with  Ins  brethren  clinging  at  his  cloak. 
The  statue  on  his  shoulders — fit  to  choke — 


I02  BALLADS. 

One  most  tremendous  bound  made  Hyacinth, 
And  soused   friars,  statue,  and   all,  slapdash  in- 
to the  Dnieper ! 


[And  how  the  Russians  saw  the  statue  get  oft'  Hyacinth 
his  back,  and  sit  down  with  the  friars  on  Hyacinth 
his  cloak. — How  in  this  manner  of  boat  they  saylcd 
away.] 

And  when  the  Russians,  in  a  fiery  rank, 

Panting  and  fierce,  drew  up  along  the  shore  ; 
(For  here  the  vain  pursuing  they  forbore, 
Nor  cared  they  to  surpass  the  river's  bank,) 
Then,  looking  from  the  rocks  and  rushes  dank, 

A  sight  they  witnessed  never  seen  before, 
And  which,  with  its  accompaniments  glorious. 
Is  writ  i'  the  golden  book,  or  liher  aureus. 

Plump  in  the    Dneiper    flounced    the  friar   and 
friends, — 
They  dangling  round  his  neck,  he  fit  to  choke, 
When  suddenly  his  most  miraculous  cloak 
Over  the  billowy  waves  itself  extends, 
Down  from  his  shoulders  quietly  descends 

The  venerable  Sophy's  statue  of  oak  ; 
Which,  sitting  down  upon  the  cloak  so  ample, 
Bids  all  the  brethren  follow  its  example  ! 

Each  at  her  bidding  sat,  and  sat  at  ease  ; 
The  statue  'gan  a  gracious  conversation, 
And  (waving  to  the  foe  a  salutation) 

Sail'd  with  her  wondering  happy  proteges 

Gaily  adown  the  wide  Borysthenes, 

Until  they  came  unto  some  friendly  nation. 

And  wlien  the  heathen  had  at  length  grown  shy 
of 


TITMARSH'S  CARMEN  LILLIENSE.     1 03 

Their  conquest,  she  one  day  came  back  again  to 
Kioff. 

XX.  • 

[Finis,  or  the  end] 

Think  not,  O  Reader,  that  we're  laugh- 
ing AT  YOU  ; 

You  MAY  GO  TO  KlOFF  NOW  AND  SEE  THE 
STATUE ! 


TITMARSH'S  CARMEN  LILLIENSE. 

Lille,  Sept.  2,  1S43. 
Mv  luart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone. 

How  shall  I  e'er  viy  woes  reveal  ? 
I  have  iw  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 

A  stranger  in  tlie  town  of  Lille. 


With  twenty  pounds  but  three  weeks  since 
From  Paris  forth  did  Titmarsh  wheel, 

I  thought  myself  as  rich  a  prince 
As  beggar  poor  I'm  now  at  Lille. 

Confiding  in  my  ample  means — 

In  troth,  I  was  a  happy  chiel  ! 
I  passed  the  gates  of  Valenciennes, 

I  never  thought  to  come  by  Lille. 

I  never  thought  my  twenty  pounds 

Some  rascal  knave  would  dare  to  steal ; 

I  gayly  passed  the  Belgic  bounds 

At  Quievrain,  twenty  miles  from  Lille. 


104  BALLADS. 

To  Antwerp  town  I  hastened  post, 
And  as  I  took  my  evening  meal 
I  felt  my  pouch, — my  purse  was  lost, 

0  Heaven  !     Why  came  I  not  by  Lille? 

I  straightway  called  for  ink  and  pen, 
To  grandmamma  I  made  appeal  ; 
Meanwhile  a  loan  of  guineas  ten 

1  borrowed  from  a  friend  so  leal. 

I  got  the  cash  from  grandmamma 

(Her  gentle  heart  my  woes  could  feel), 

But  where  I  went  and  what  I  saw. 
What  matters  ?     Here  I  am  at  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone. 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  cash,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


To  stealing  I  can  never  come. 

To  pawn  my  watch  I'm  too  genteel  : 

Besides,  I  left  my  watch  at  home — 
How  could  I  pawn  it  then  at  Lille  ? 

"  La  note"  at  times  the  guests  will  say. 

I  turn  as  white  as  cold  boil'd  veal  ; 
I  turn  and  look  another  way, 

/  dare  not  ask  the  bill  at  Lille. 

I  dare  not  to  the  landlord  say, 

"  Good  sir,  I  cannot  pay  your  bill  ;" 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
And  is  quite  proud  1  stay  at  Lille. 


TJTMARSWS  CARMEN  LILLIENSE.     1 05 

He  thinks  I  am  a  Lord  Anglais, 
Like  Rothschild  or  Sir  Robert  Peel, 

And  so  he  serves  me  every  day 

The  best  of  meat  and  drink  in  Lille. 

Yet  when  he  looks  me  in  the  face 

I  blush  as  red  as  cochineal ; 
And  think,  did  he  but  know  my  case, 

How  changed  he'd  be,  my  host  of  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


The  sun  bursts  out  in  furious  blaze, 
I  perspirate  from  head  to  heel  ; 

I'd  like  to  hire  a  one-horse  chaise — 
How  can  I,  without  cash  at  Lille? 

I  pass  in  sunshine  burning  hot 
By  caf6s  where  in  beer  they  deal ; 

I  think  how  pleasant  were  a  pot, 
A  frothing  pot  of  beer  of  Lille  ! 

What  is  yon  house  with  walls  so  thick. 
All  girt  around  with  guard  and  grille  ? 

O  gracious  gods  !  it  makes  me  sick, 
It  is  ^^prison-house  of  Lille  ! 

0  cursed  prison  strong  and  barred, 
It  does  my  very  blood  congeal  ! 

1  tremble  as  I  pass  the  guard, 
And  quit  that  ugly  part  of  Lille. 


Io6  BALLADS. 

The  church-door  beggar  whines  and  prays, 

I  turn  away  at  his  appeal  : 
Ah,  church-door  beggar  !  go  thy  way's  ! 

You're  not  the  poorest  man  in  Lille. 

My  heart  is  weary,  my  peace  is  gone, 
How  shall  I  e'er  my  woes  reveal  ? 

I  have  no  money,  I  lie  in  pawn, 
A  stranger  in  the  town  of  Lille. 


Say,  shall  1  to  yon  Flemish  church, 
And  at  a  Popish  altar  kneel  ? 

O,  do  not  leave  me  in  the  lurch, — 
I'll  cry,  ye  patron-saints  of  Lille  ! 

Ye  virgins  dressed  in  satin  hoops, 
Ye  martyrs  slain  for  mortal  weal. 

Look  kindly  down  !  before  you  stoops 
The  miserablest  man  in  Lille. 

And  lo  !  as  I  beheld  with  awe 

A  pictured  saint  (I  swear  'tis  real), 

It  smiled,  and  turned  to  grandmamma  !- 
It  did  !  and  I  had  hope  in  Lille  ! 

'Twas  five  o'clock,  and  I  could  eat. 
Although  I  could  not  pay  my  meal  : 

I  hasten  back  into  the  street 

Where  lies  my  inn,  the  best  in  Lille. 

What  see  I  on  my  table  stand, — 
A  letter  with  a  well-known  seal  ? 

'Tis  grandmamma's  !  I  know  her  hand,- 
"To  Mr.  M,  A.  Titmarsh,  Lille." 


JEAMRS   OF  BUCKLEY  SQUARE.      107 

I  feel  a  choking  in  my  throat, 

I  pant  and  stagger,  faint  and  reel  ! 

It  is — it  is — a  ten-pound  note, 

And  I'm  no  more  in  pawn  at  Lille  ! 

[He  goes  off  by  the  diligence  that  evening,  and  is  restored 
to  the  bosom  of  his  happy  family.] 


JEAMES  OF  BUCKLEY  SQUARE. 


Come  all  ye  gents  vot  cleans  the  plate, 

Come  all  ye  ladies,  maids  so  fair — 
Vile  I  a  story  vill  relate 

Of  cruel  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 
A  tighter  lad,  it  is  confest, 

Neer  valked  with  powder  in  his  air, 
Or  vore  a  nosegay  in  his  breast, 

Thanandsum  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 

O  Evns  !  it  was  the  best  of  sights, 

Behind  his  Master's  coach  and  pair, 
To  see  our  Jeames  in  red  plush  tights, 

A  driving  hoff  from  Buckley  Square. 
He  vel  became  his  hagwilletts. 

He  cocked  his  at  with  such  a  hair  ; 
His  calves  and  viskers  vas  such  pets. 

That  hall  loved  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square. 

He  pleased  the  hup-stairs  folks  as  veil, 

And  o  !  I  vithered  vith  despair. 
Missis  voiild  ring  the  parler  bell. 

And  call  up  Jeames  in  Buckley  S(iuare. 


Io8  BALLADS. 

Both  beer  and  sperrits  he  abhord, 
(Sperrits  and  beer  I  can't  a  bear,) 

You  would  have  thought  he  vas  a  lord 
Down  in  our  All  in  Buckley  Square. 

Last  year  he  visper'd,  "  Mary  Ann, 

Ven  I've  an  under 'd  pound  to  spare, 
To  take  a  public  is  my  plan. 

And  leave  this  hojous  Buckley  Square." 
O  how  my  gentle  heart  did  bound, 

To  think  that  I  his  name  should  bear ! 
"  Dear  Jeames,"  says  I,  "  I've  twenty  pound," 

And  gev  them  him  in  Buckley  Square. 

Our  master  vas  a  City  gent, 

His  name's  in  railroads  everywhere. 
And  lord,  vot  lots  of  letters  vent 

Betwigst  his  brokers  and  Buckley  Square  : 
My  Jeames  it  was  the  letters  took, 

And  read  them  all  (I  think  it's  fair). 
And  took  a  leaf  from  Master's  book. 

As  hotkeys  do  in  Buckley  Square. 

Encouraged  with  my  twenty  pound. 

Of  which  poor  /  was  unavare. 
He  wrote  the  Companies  all  round. 

And  signed  hisself  from  Buckley  Square. 
And  how  John  Porter  used  to  grin. 

As   day  by  day,  share  after  share. 
Came  railvay  letters  pouring  in, 

"J.  Plush,  Esquire,  in  Buckley  Square." 

Our  servants'  All  was  in  a  rage — 

Scrip,   stock,  curves,   gradients,   bull  and 
bear, 

Mth  butler,  coachman,  groom  and  page, 
Vas  all  the  talk  in  Buckley  Square. 


MY  SISTER'S  PORTRAIT.  109 

But  O  !  imagine  vot  I  felt 

Last  Vensday  veek  as  ever  were  ; 

I  gits  a  letter,  which  I  spelt 

"  Miss  M.  A.  Hoggins,  Buckley  Square." 

He  sent  me  back  my  money  true — 

He  sent  me  back  my  lock  of  air, 
And  said,  "  My  dear,  I  bid  ajew 

To  Mary  Hann  and  Buckley  Square. 
Think  not  to  marry,  foolish  Hann, 

With  people  who  your  betters  are  ; 
James  Plush  is  now  a  gentleman. 

And  you — a  cook  in  Buckley  Square. 

"  I've  thirty  thousand  guineas  won. 

In  six  short  months,  by  genus  rare 
You  little  thought  what  Jeames  was  on, 

Poor  Mary  Hann,  in  Buckley  Square. 
I've  thirty  thousand  guineas  net, 

Powder  and  plush  I  scorn  to  vear  ; 
And  so.  Miss  Mary  Hann,  forget 

For  hever  Jeames  of  Buckley  Square." 


LINES  UPON  MY  SISTER'S  PORTRAIT. 

BY    THE   LORD    SOUTHDOWN. 

The  castle  towers  of  Bareacres  are  fair  upon  the 

lea. 
Where  the  cliffs  of  bonny  Diddlesex  rise  up  from 

out  the  sea : 
I  stood  upon  the  donjon  keep  and  view'd   the 

country  o'er, 
I  saw  the  lands  of  liai-eacres  for  fifty  miles  or 

more. 


no  BALLADS. 

I  stood  upon    the   donjon    keep — it  is   a  sacred 

place — 
Where  floated  for  eight  hundred  years  the  banner 

of  my  race  ; 
Argent,   a  dexter   sinople,    and    gules   an   azure 

field: 
There  ne'er  was  nobler  cognizance  on  knightly 

warrior's  shield. 

The  first  time  England  saw  the  shield  'twas  round 

a  Norman  neck, 
On  board  a  ship  from  Valery,  King  William  was 

on  deck. 
A   Norman   lance  the  colors  wore,  in  Hastings' 

fatal  fray — 
St.  Willibald   for  Bareacres  !  'twas  double  gules 

that  day  ! 
O  Heaven   and  sweet  St.  Willibald  !  in  many  a 

battle  since 
A  loyal-hearted  Bareacres  has  ridden  by  his  Prince! 
At    Acre    with    Plantagenet,    with    Edward    at 

Poictiers, 
The  pennon  of  the  Bareacres  was  foremost  on  . 

the  spears  ! 

'Twas  pleasant  in  the   battle-shock  to  hear  our 

war-cry  ringing  : 
O  grant  me,  sweet  St. Willibald,  to  listen  to  such 

singing ! 
Three  hundred  steel-clad  gentlemen,  we  drove  the 

foe  before  us, 
And  thirty  score  of  British  bows  kept  twanging  to 

the  chorus  ! 
O  knights,  my  noble  ancestors  !  and  shall  I  never 

hear 
St.  Willibald  for  Bareacres  through  battle  ringing 

clear  ? 


LITTLE  BILLEE.  1 1 1 

I'd  cut  me  off  this  strong  right  hand  a  single  hour 

to  ride, 
And  strilve  a  blow  for  Bareacres,  my  fathers,  at 

your  side  ! 

Dash  down,  dash  down,  yon  mandolin,   beloved 

sister  mine  ! 
Those  blushing  lips  may  never  sing  the  glories 

of  our  line  : 
Our  ancient  castles  echo  to  the  clumsy  feet  of 

churls. 
The  spinning-jenny  houses  in  the  mansion  of  our 

Earls. 
Sing  not,  sing  not,    my  Angeline  !    in  days  so 

base  and  vile, 
'Twere  sinful   to   be   happy,   'twere  sacrilege  to 

smile. 
I'll  hie  me  to  my  lonely  hall,  and  by  its  cheerless 

hob 
I'll  muse  on  other  days,  and  wish — and  wish  I 

were — A  Snob, 


LITTLE   BILLEE.* 
Air — "  II  y  avail  un  petit  navire.'' 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Rristol  city 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea. 

But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 


*  As  different  ver-.ions  of  this  popular  song  have  been  set 
to  music  and  sung,  no  apology  is  needed  for  the  insertion  in 
these  pages  of  what  is  considered  to  be  the  correct  version, 


1 1 2  BALLADS. 

There  was  gorging  Jack  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee. 

Now  when  they  got  as  far  as  the   Equator 
They'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy. 

"  We've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"  With  one  another  we  shouldn't  agree  ! 

There's  little  Bill,  he's  young  and  tender, 
We're  old  and  tough,  so  let's  eat  he. 

"  Oh  !  Billy,  we're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you. 
So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 

When  Bill  received  this  information 
He  used  his  pocket  handkerchie. 

"  First  let  me  say  my  catechism. 
Which  my  poor  mammy  taught  to  mc.  " 

"  Make  haste,  make  haste,"  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

So  Billy  went  up  to  the  main-top-gallant  mast. 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee. 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  twelfth  commandment 
When  up  he  jumps.      "  There's  land  I  see  ; 

' '  Jerusalem  and  Madagascar, 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee  : 
There's  the  British  flag  a  riding  at  anchor, 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.C.B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee  , 


THE  END   OF   THE  PLAY.  II3 

But  as  for  little  Bill  he  made  him 
The  Captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 


THE   END    OF   THE   PLAY. 
1 

The  play  is  done  ;  the  curtain  drops. 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell : 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task  ; 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends. 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time.* 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts. 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play ; 
Good  night  !  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  ! 

Good  night  ! — I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men  ; 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 


*  The^e  vcr?';';  were  printed  at  the  end  of  .1  Christmas 
book  (184S-9),  "  Dr.  Birch  and  his  Young  Friends." 


1 1 4  BALLADS. 

I'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive, 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys  ; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray. 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift ; 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool. 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall. 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all. 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  ! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine. 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ?  * 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  will'd  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all. 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow. 

That's  free  to  give,  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit  : 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state  ? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel. 

Confessing  Heaven  that  rulet!  it  thus. 

*  C.  B.  ob.  29th  November.  1848.  ;et.  49. 


THE  END   OF   THE  PL  A  Y.  1 1 5 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed  ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen  !  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent. 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart, 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise. 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young  ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays) ; 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days  : 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside. 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  eartli,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


Il6  BALLADS. 


VANITAS  VANITATUM. 

How  spake  of  old  the  Royal  Seer? 

(His  text  is  one  I  love  to  treat  on.) 
This  life  of  ours,  he  said,  is  sheer 

Mataiotes  Mataioteton. 

O  Student  of  this  gilded  Book, 

Declare,  while  musing  on  its  pages, 

If  truer  words  were  ever  spoke 
By  ancient  or  by  modern  sages  ? 

The  various  authors'  names  but  note,* 

French,  Spanish,  English,  Russians,  Germans 

And  in  the  volume  polyglot 

Sure  you  may  read  a  hundred  sermons  ! 

What  histories  of  life  are  here, 

More  wild  than  all  romancers'  stories  ; 

What  wondrous  transformations  queer, 
What  homilies  on  human  glories  ! 

What  theme  for  sorrow  or  for  scorn  ! 

What  chronicle  of  Fate's  surprises — 
Of  adverse  fortune  nobly  borne, 

Of  chances,  changes,  ruins,  rises  ! 

Of  thrones  upset,  and  sceptres  broke, 
How  strange  a  record  here  is  written  ! 

Of  honors,  dealt  as  if  in  joke  ; 
Of  brave  desert  unkindly  smitten. 


*  Between  a  page  by  Jules   Janin,  and  a  poem  by  the 

Turkish   Ambassador,  in    Madame   de  R 's  album, 

containing  the  autographs  of  kings,  princes,  poets,  mar- 
shals, musicians,  diplomatists,  statesmen,  artists,  and  men 
of  letters  of  all  nations. 


V ANITAS    VANITATUM.  llj 

How  low  men  were,  and  how  they  rise ! 

How  high  they  were,  and  how  they  tumble  ! 

0  vanity  of  vanities  ! 

0  laughable,  pathetic  jumble  ! 

Here  between  honest  Janin's  joke 
And  his  Turk  Excellency's  firman, 

1  write  ray  name  upon  the  book  : 

1  write  my  name — and  end  my  sermon. 


O  vanity  of  vanities  ! 

How  wayAvard  the  decrees  of  Fate  are  ; 
How  very  weak  the  very  wise. 

How  very  small  the  very  great  are  ! 

What  mean  these  stale  moralities, 

Sir  Preacher,  from  your  desk  you  mumble  ? 
Why  rail  against  the  great  and  wise. 

And  tire  us  with  your  ceaseless  grumble  ? 

Pray  choose  us  out  another  text, 
O  man  morose  and  narrow-minded  ! 

Come  turn  the  page — I  read  the  next. 
And  then  the  next,  and  still  I  find  it. 

Read  here  how  Wealth  aside  was  thrust. 

And  Folly  set  in  place  exalted  ; 
How  Princes  footed  in  the  dust. 

While  lackeys  in  the  saddle  vaulted. 

Though  thrice  a  thousand  years  are  past 
Since  David's  son,  the  sad  and  splendid, 

The  weary  King  Ecclesiast, 

Upon  his  awful  tablets  penned  it, — 


Il8  BALLADS. 

Methinks  the  text  is  never  stale, 
And  life  is  every  day  renewing 

Fresh  comments  on  the  old  old  tale 
Of  Folly,  Fortune,  Glory,  Ruin. 

Hark  to  the  Preacher,  preaching  still 
He  lifts  his  voice  and  cries  his  sermon. 

Here  at  St.  Peter's  of  Cornhill, 

As  yonder  on  the  Mount  of  Hermon  : 

For  you  and  me  to  heart  to  take 
(O  dear  beloved  brother  readers) 

To-day  as  when  the  good  King  spake 
Beneath  the  solemn  Syrian  cedars. 


LOVE-SONGS  MADE  EASY. 


WHAT  MAKES  MY  HEART  TO  THRILL 
AND  GLOW? 

THE   MAYFAIR    LOVE-SONG. 

Winter  and  summer,  night  and  morn, 
I  languish  at  this  table  dark  ; 

My  office  window  has  a  corn- 
er looks  into  St.  James's  Park. 

I  hear  the  foot-guards'  bugle-horn. 
Their  tramp  upon  parade  I  mark  ; 

I  am  a  gentleman  forlorn, 
I  am  a  Foreign-Office  Clerk. 

My  toils,  my  pleasures,  every  one, 

I  find  are  stale,  and  dull,  and  slow  ; 
And  yesterday,  when  work  was  done, 

I  felt  myself  so  sad  and  low, 
I  could  have  seized  a  sentry's  gun 

My  wearied  brains  out  out  to  blow. 
What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run  ? 

What  makes  my  heart  to  beat  and  glow  ? 

My  notes  of  hand  are  burnt,  perhaps  ? 

Some  one  has  paid  my  tailor's  bill  ? 
No  :  everj'  morn  the  tailor  raps  ; 

My  I  O  U's  are  extant  still. 
I  still  am  prey  of  debt  and  dun ; 

My  elder  brother's  stout  and  well. 


)  LOVE-SONGS  MADE  EASY. 

What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run  ? 

What  makes  my  heart  to  glow  and  swell  ? 

I  know  my  chief's  distrust  and  hate  ; 

He  says  I'm  lazy  and  I  shirk. 
Ah  !  had  I  genius  like  the  late 

Right  Honorable  Edmund  Burke  ! 
My  chance  of  all  promotion's  gone, 

I  know  it  is, — he  hates  me  so. 
What  is  it  makes  my  blood  to  run, 

And  all  my  heart  to  swell  and  glow  ? 

Why,  why  is  all  so  bright  and  gay  ? 

There  is  no  change,  there  is  no  cause  ; 
My  office-time  I  found  to-day 

Disgusting  as  it  ever  was. 
At  three,  I  went  and  tried  the  Clubs, 

And  yawned  and  saunter'd  to  and  fro  ; 
And  now  my  heart  jumps  up  and  throbs. 

And  all  my  soul  is  in  a  glow. 

At  half-past  four  I  had  the  cab  ; 
I  drove  as  hard  as  I  could  go. 

The  London  sky  was  dirty  drab. 
And  dirty  brown  the  London  snow. 

And  as  I  rattled  in  a  cant- 
er down  by  dear  old  Bolton  Row, 

A  something  made  my  heart  to  pant, 
And  caused  my  cheek  to  flush  and  glow. 

What  could  it  be  that  made  me  find 

Old  Jawkins  pleasant  at  the  Club  ? 
Why  was  it  that  I  laughed  and  grinned 

At  whist,  although  I  lost  the  rub  ? 
What  was  it  made  me  drink  like  mad 

Thirteen  small  glasses  of  Cura5ao  ? 
That  made  my  inmost  heart  so  glad. 

And  every  fibre  thrill  and  glow  ? 


THE  ROCKS.  121 

She's  home  again  !  she's  home,  she's  home  ! 

Away  all  cares  and  griefs  and  pain  ; 
I  knew  she  would — she's  back  from  Rome  ; 

She's  home  again  !  she's  home  again  ! 
"The  family's  gone  abroad,"  they  said, 

September  last — they  told  me  so  ; 
Since  then  my  lonely  heart  is  dead. 

My  blood,  I  think's  forgot  to  flow. 

She's  home  again  !  Away  all  care  ! 

O  fairest  form  the  world  can  show ! 
O  beaming  eyes  !     O  golden  hair  ! 

O  tender  voice,  that  breathes  so  low  ! 
O  gentlest,  softest,  purest  heart ! 

O  joy,  O  hope  ! — "  My  tiger,  ho  !  " 
Fitz-Clarence  said  ;  we  saw  him  start — 

He  galloped  down  to  Bolton  Row. 


THE   GHAZUL,    OR    ORIENTAL    LOVE- 
SONG. 

THE    ROCKS. 

I  WAS  a  timid  little  antelope  ; 

My  home  was  in  the  rocks,  the  lonely  rocks. 

I  saw  the  hunters  scouring  on  the  plain  ; 
I  lived  among  the  rocks,  the  lonely  rocks. 

I  was  a-thirsty  in  the  summer-heat  ; 

I  ventured  to  the  tents  beneath  the  rocks. 

Zuleikah  !  brought  me  water  from  the  well ; 
Since  then  I  have  been  faithless  to  the  rocks. 


122  LOVE-SONGS  MADE  EASY. 

I  saw  her  face  reflected  in  the  well  ; 

Her  camels  since  have  marched  into  the  rocks. 

I  look  to  see  her  image  in  the  well  ; 
I  only  see  my  eyes,  my  own  sad  eyes. 
My  mother  is  alone  among  the  rocks. 

THE  MERRY   BARD. 

ZuLEiKAH  !  The  young  Agas  in  the  bazaar  are 
slim-waisted  and  wear  yellow  slippers.  I  am  old 
and  hideous.  One  of  my  eyes  is  out,  and  the  hairs 
of  my  beard  are  mostly  gray.  Praise  be  to 
Allah  !  I  am  a  merry  bard. 

There  is  a  bird  upon  the  terrace  of  the  Emir's 
chief  wife.  Praise  be  to  Allah  !  He  has  emer- 
alds on  his  neck,  and  a  ruby  tail.  I  am  a  merry 
bard.  He  deafens  me  with  his  diabolical  scream- 
ing. 

There  is  a  little  brown  bird  in  the  basket- 
maker's  cage.  Praise  be  to  Allah  !  He  ravishes 
my  soul  in  the  moonlight.     I  am  a  merry  bard. 

The  peacock  is  an  Aga,  but  the  little  bird  is  a 
Bulbul. 

I  am  a  little  brown  Bulbul.  Come  and  listen 
in  the  moonlight.  Praise  be  to  Allah  !  I  am  a 
merry  bard. 

THE  CAi'QUE. 

Yonder  to  the  kiosk,  beside  the  creek. 
Paddle  the  swift  caique. 

Thou  brawny  oarsman  vvith  the  sun-burnt  cheek, 
Quick  !  for  it  soothes  my  heart  to  hear  the  Bulbul 
speak. 


31  y  NORA.  123 

Ferry  me  quickly  to  the  Asian  shores, 
Swift  bending  to  your  oars. 
Beneath  the  melancholy  sycamores, 
Hark  !  what  a  ravishing  note  the  love-lorn  Bulbul 
pours ! 

Behold,  the  boughs  seem  quivering  with  delight. 
The  stars  themselves  more  bright. 
As  mid  the  waving  branches  out  of  sight 
The  Lover  of  the  Rose  sits  singing  through  the 
night. 

Under  the  boughs  I  sat  and  listened  still, 

I  could  not  have  my  fill. 

"  How  comes,"  I  said,  "  such  music  to  his  bill  ? 

Tell  me  for  whom  he  sings  so  beautiful  a  trill." 

"Once  I  was  dumb,"  then  did  the  Bird  disclose, 
"  But  looked  upon  the  Rose  ; 
And  in  the  garden  where  the  loved  one  grows, 
I  straightway  did  begin  sweet  music  to  compose." 

"O  bird  of  song,  there's  one  in  this  caique 
The  Rose  would  also  seek. 
So  he  might  learn  like  you  to  love  and  speak." 
Then  answered  me  the  bird  of  dusky  beak, 
"  The   Rose,   the    Rose  of    Love    blushes    on 
Leilah's  cheek." 


MY  NORA. 

Beneath  the  gold  acacia  buds 
My  gentle  Nora  sits  and  broods. 
Far,  far  away  in  Boston  woods 

My  gentle  Nora  ! 


124  LOVE-SONGS  MADE  EASY. 

I  see  the  tear-drop  in  her  e'e. 
Her  bosom's  heaving  tenderly ; 
I  know — I  know  she  thinks  of  me, 
My  darling  Nora  ! 

And  where  am  I  '    My  love,  whilst  thou 
Sitt'st  sad  beneath  the  acacia  bough. 
Where  pearl's  on  neck,  and  wreath  on  brow, 
I  stand,  my  Nora  ! 

Mid  carcanet  and  coronet. 
Where  joy-lamps  shine  and  flowers  are  set — 
Where  England's  chivalry  are  met, 
Behold  me  Nora ! 

In  this  strange  scene  of  revelry. 
Amidst  this  gorgeous  chivalry, 
A  form  I  saw  was  like  to  thee. 

My  love — my  Nora  ! 

She  paused  amidst  her  converse  glad  ; 
The  lady  saw  that  I  was  sad, 
She  pitied  the  poor  lonely  lad, — 

Dost  love  her,  Nora  ? 

In  sooth,  she  is  a  lovely  dame, 
A  lip  of  red,  and  eye  of  flame. 
And  clustering  golden  locks,  the  same 
As  thine,  dear  Nora  ! 

Her  glance  is  softer  than  the  dawn's, 
Her  foot  is  lighter  tlian  the  fawn  s. 
Her  breast  is  whiter  than  the  swan's. 
Or  thine,  my  Nora  ! 

Oh,  gentle  breast  to  pity  me  ! 
Oh,  lovely  Ladye  Emily  ! 
Till  death— till  death  I'll  think  of  thee— 
Of  thee  and  Nora  ! 


SERENADE.  125 


TO  MARY. 

I  SEEM,  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 

The  lightest  of  all ; 
My  laughter  rings  cheery  and  loud 

In  banquet  and  ball. 
My  lip  hath  its  smiles  and  its  sneers, 

For  all  men  to  see  ; 
But  my  soul,  and  my  truth,  and  my  tears, 

Are  for  thee,  are  for  thee  ! 

Around  me  they  flatter  and  fawn — 

The  young  and  the  old, 
The  fairest  are  ready  to  pawn 

Their  hearts  for  my  gold. 
They  sue  me — I  laugh  as  I  spurn 

The  slaves  at  my  knee  ; 
But  in  faith  and  in  fondness  I  turn 

Unto  thee,  unto  thee  ! 


SERENADE. 

Now  the  toils  of  day  are  over. 
And  the  sun  hath  sunk  to  rest, 

Seeking,  like  a  fiery  lover. 

The  bosom  of  the  blushing  west — 

The  faithful  night  keeps  watch  and  ward, 
Raising  the  moon  her  silver  shield. 

And  summoning  the  stars  to  guard 
The  slumbers  of  my  fair  Mathilde  ! 


126  LOVE-SONGS  MADE  EASY. 

The  faithful  night  !    Now  all  things  lie 
Hid  by  her  mantle  dark  and  dim, 

In  pious  hope  I  hitherhie, 

And  humbly  chant  mine  evening  hymn. 

Thou  art  my  prayer,  my  saint,  my  shrine  ! 

(For  never  holy  pilgrim  kneel'd 
Or  wept  at  feet  more  pure  than  thine), 

My  virgin  love,  my  sweet  Mathilde  ! 


FIVE  GERMAN  DITTIES. 


A  TRAGIC  STORY. 

BY   ADELBERT    VON    CHAMISSO. 

" 's  war  Einer,  dem's  zu  Herien  gieng." 

There  lived  a  sage  in  days  of  yore, 
And  he  a  handsome  pigtail  wore  ; 
But  wondered  much  and  sorrowed  more 
Because  it  hung  behind  him. 

He  mused  upon  this  curious  case, 

And  swore  he'd  change  the  pigtail's  place. 

And  have  it  hanging  at  his  face. 

Not  dangling  there  behind  him. 

Says  he,  "  The  mystery  I've  found, — 
I'll  turn  me  round," — he  turned  him  round 
But  still  it  hung  behind  him. 

Then  round,  and  round,  and  out  and  in. 
All  day  the  puzzled  sage  did  spin  ; 
In  vain — it  mattered  not  a  pin, — 

The  pigtail  hung  behind  him. 

And  right,  and  left,  and  round  about. 
And  up,  and  down,  and  in,  and  out. 
He  turned  ;  but  still  the  pigtail  stout 
Hung  steadily  behind  him. 


128  FIVE  GERMAN  DITTIES. 

And  though  his  efforts  never  slack, 

And  though  he  twist,  and  whirl,  and  tack, 

Alas  !  still  faithful  to  his  back 

The  pigtail  hangs  behind  him. 


THE  CHAPLET. 

FROM    UHLAND. 

"  Es  pfliickte  Bliimlein  mannigfalt." 

A  LITTLE  girl  through  field  and  wood 
Went  plucking  flowerets  here  and  there, 

When  suddenly  beside  her  stood 
A  lady  wondrous  fair. 

The  lovely  lady  smiled,  and  laid 
A  wreath  upon  the  maiden's  brow  : 

"  Wear  it ;  'twill  blossom  soon,"  she  said, 
"Although  'tis  leafless  now." 

The  little  maiden  older  grew 

And  wandered  forth  of  moonlight  eves. 
And  sighed  and  loved  as  maids  will  do  ; 

When,  lo  !  her  wreath  bore  leaves. 

Then  was  our  maid  a  wife,  and  hung 
Upon  a  joyful  bridegroom's  bosom  ; 

When  from  the  garland's  leaves  there  sprung 
Fair  store  of  blossom. 

And  presently  a  baby  fair 

Upon  iier  gentle  breast  she  reared  ; 
When  midst  the  wreath  that  bound  her  hair 

Rich  golden  fruit  appeared. 


THE  KING   ON   THE   TOWER.       1 29 

But  when  her  love  lay  cold  in  death, 
Sunk  in  the  black  and  silent  tomb, 

All  sere  and  withered  was  the  wreath 
That  wont  so  bright  to  bloom. 

Yet  still  the  withered  wreath  she  wore  ; 

She  wore  it  at  her  dying  hour  ; 
When,  lo  !  the  wondrous  garland  bore 

Both  leaf,  and  fruit,  and  flower  ! 


THE  KING  ON  THE  TOWER. 

FROM    UHLAND. 

"  Da  liegen  sie  alle,  die  grauen  Hohen." 

The  cold  gray  hills  they  bind  me  around. 
The  darksome  valleys  lie  sleeping  below. 

But  the  winds,  as  they  pass  o'er  all  this  ground. 
Bring  me  never  a  sound  of  woe. 

Oh  !  for  all  I  have  suffered  and  striven. 
Care  has  embittered  my  cup  cind  my  feast  ; 

But  here  is  the  night  and  the  dark  blue  heaven. 
And  my  soul  shall  be  at  rest. 

O  golden  legends  writ  in  the  skies  ! 

I  turn  toward  you  with  longing  soul. 
And  list  to  the  awful  harmonies 

Of  the  Spheres  as  on  they  roll. 

My  hair  is  gray  and  my  sight  nigh  gone  ; 

My  sword  it  rusteth  upon  the  wall  ; 
Right  have  I  spoken,  and  right  have  I  done  : 

When  shall  I  rest  me  once  for  all  ? 


130  FIVE  GERMAN  DITTIES. 

O  blessed  rest  !  O  royal  night  ! 

Wherefore  seemeth  the  time  so  long 
Till  I  see  yon  stars  in  their  fullest  light, 

And  list  to  their  loudest  song  ? 


TO  A  VERY  OLD  WOMAN. 

LA   MOTTE    FOUQUtf. 

"  Und  Du  gingst  einst,  die  Myrt'  im  Haare." 

And  thou  wert  once  a  maiden  fair, 

A  blushing  virgin  warm  and  young : 
With  myrtles  wreathed  in  golden  hair. 
And  glossy  brow  that  knew  no  care — 
Upon  a  bridegroom's  arm  you  hung. 

The  golden  locks  are  silvered  now, 

The  blushing  cheek  is  pale  and  wan  ; 
The  spring  may  bloom,  the  autumn  glow. 
All's  one — in  chimney  corner  thou 
Sitt'st  shivering  on. — 

A  moment — and  thou  sink'st  to  rest  ! 
To  wake  perhaps  an  angel  blest 

In  the  bright  presence  of  thy  Lord. 
Oh,  weary  is  life's  path  to  all  ! 
Hard  is  the  strife,  and  light  the  fall, 

But  wondrous  the  reward  ! 


-■;   CREDO.  131 

A  CREDO. 


For  the  sole  edification 
Of  this  decent  congregation, 
Goodly  people,  by  your  grant 
I  will  sing  a  holy  chant — 

I  will  sing  a  holy  chant. 
If  the  ditty  sound  but  oddly, 
'Twas  a  father,  wise  and  godly. 

Sang  it  so  long  ago — 
Then  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang  : 
*'  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song. 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  !" 


He,  by  custom  patriarchal, 
Loved  to  see  the  beaker  sparkle  ; 
And  he  thought  the  wine  improved. 
Tasted  by  the  lips  he  loved — 

By  the  kindly  lips  he  loved. 
Friends,  I  wish  this  custom  pious 
Duly  were  observed  by  us, 

To  combine  love,  song,  wine. 
And  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang. 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang  : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life-long  !" 


Who  refuses  this  our  Credo, 
And  who  will  not  sing  as  we  do. 
Were  he  holy  as  John  Knox, 
I'd  pronounce  him  heterodox  I 

I'd  pronounce  him  heterodox. 


132  FIVE  GERMAN  DITTIES. 

And  from  out  this  congregation, 
With  a  solemn  commination, 
Banish  quick  the  heretic, 
Who  will  not  sing  as  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang  : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  sonj 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  !" 


FOUR 
I  MIT  A  TIONS  OF  BERANGER. 

LE  ROI  D'YVETOT. 

Il  6tait  un  roi  d'Yvetot, 

Peu  connu  dans  I'histoire  ; 
Se  levant  tard,  se  couchant  t6t, 

Dormant  fort  bien  sans  gloire, 
Et  couronn6  par  Jeanneton 
D'un  simple  bonnet  de  coton, 
Dit-on. 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah! 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'6tait  la  ! 
La,  la. 

II  fesait  ses  quatre  repas 

Dans  son  palais  de  chaume, 
Et  sur  un  ane,  pas  i  pas, 

Parcourait  son  royaume. 
Joyeux,  simple  et  croyant  le  bien. 
Pour  toute  garde  il  n'avait  rien 
Qu'un  chien. 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  &c. 

II  n'avait  de  gout  onereux 

Qu'une  soif  un  deu  vive  ; 
Mais,  en  rendant  son  peuple  heureux, 

II  faut  bien  qu'un  roi  vive. 


134         IMITATIONS   OF  BER ANGER. 

Lui-meme  a  table,  et  sans  suppot, 
Sur  chaque  muid  levait  un  pot 
D'impot. 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  '  ah  I  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  &c, 

Aux  filles  de  bonnes  maisons 

Comme  il  avait  su  plaire, 
Ses  sujets  avaient  cent  raisons 

De  le  nommer  leur  pere  : 
D'ailleurs  il  ne  levait  de  ban 
Que  pour  tirer  quatre  fois  I'an 
Au  blanc, 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  &c. 

II  n'agrandit  point  ses  etats, 

Fut  un  voisin  commode, 
Et,  modele  des  potentats, 
Prit  le  plaisir  pour  code, 
Ce  n'est  que  lorsqu'il  expira, 
Que  le  peuple  qui  I'enterra 
Pleura. 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  .'  &c. 

On  conserve  en  cor  le  portrait 

De  ce  digne  et  bon  prince  ; 

C'est  I'enseigne  d'un  carbaret 

Fameux  dans  la  province. 
Les  jours  de  fete,  bien  souvent, 
La  foule  s'ecrie  en  buvant 
Devant : 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  &c. 


THE  KING  YVETOT. 

There  was  a  king  of  Yvetot, 
Of  whom  renown  hath  little  said, 


THE  KING   OF    YVETOT.  135 

Who  let  all  thoughts  of  glory  go, 

And  dawdled  half  his  days  a-bed  ; 
And  every  night,  as  night  came  round, 
By  Jenny  with  a  nightcap  crowned, 
Slept  very  sound : 
Sing  ho,  ho,  ho  !  and  he,  he,  he  ! 
That's  the  kind  of  king  for  me. 

And  every  day  it  came  to  pass. 

That  four  lusty  meals  made  he  ; 
And  step  by  step,  upon  an  ass. 

Rode  abroad,  his  realms  to  see  ; 
And  wherever  he  did  stir. 
What  think  you  was  his  escort,  sir? 
Why,  an  old  cur. 
Sing  ho,  ho,  ho  !  &c. 

If  e'er  he  went  into  excess, 

'Twas  from  a  somewhat  lively  thirst  ; 
But  he  who  would  his  subjects  bless, 

Odd's  fish  ! — must  wet  his  whistle  first  ; 
And  so  from  every  cask  they  got. 
Our  king  did  to  himself  allot 
At  least  a  pot. 
Sing  ho,  ho  1  &c. 

To  all  the  ladies  of  the  land, 

A  courteous  king,  and  kind,  was  he — 
The  reason  why,  you'll  understand, 

They  named  him  Pater  Patrice. 
Each  year  he  called  his  fighting  men, 
And  marched  a  league  from  home,  and  then 
Marched  back  again, 
Sing  ho,  ho  !  &c. 

Neither  by  force  nor  false  pretence, 
He  sought  lo  make  his  kingdom  great, 


136        IMITATIONS  OF  BER ANGER. 

And  made  (O  princes,  learn  from  hence) — 

"  Live  and  let  live,"  his  rule  of  state. 
'Twas  only  when  he  came  to  die. 
That  his  people  who  stood  by, 

Were  known  to  cry. 
Sing  ho,  ho  !  &c. 

The  portrait  of  this  best  of  kings 

Is  extant  still,  upon  a  sign 
That  on  a  village  tavern  swings, 

Famed  in  the  country  for  good  wine. 
The  people  in  their  Sunday  trim. 
Filling  their  glasses  to  the  brim. 
Look  up  to  him, 
Singing  ha,  ha,  ha !  and  he,  he,  he  ! 
That's  the  sort  of  king  for  me. 


THE  KING  OF  BRENTFORD. 

ANOTHER   VERSION. 

There  was  a  king  in  Brentford, — of  whom  no 

legends  tell. 
But  who,  without  his  glory,  —could  eat  and  sleep 

right  well. 
His   Polly's  cotton  nightcap, — it   was  his  crov%-n 

of  state, 
He  slept  of  evenings  early, — and  rose  of  mornings 

late. 

All  in  a  fine  mud  palace, — each  day  he  took  four 

meals. 
And  for  aguardof  honor — a  dog  ran  at  his  heels, 
Sometimes  to  view  his  kingdoms, — rode  forth  this 

monarch  good. 
And  then  a  prancing  jackass — he  royally  bestrod. 


THE  KING   OF  BREXTFORD.        137 

There  were  no  costly  habits — with  which  this 
king  was  curst, 

Except  (and  where's  the  harm  on't  ?) — a  some- 
what lively  thirst  ; 

But  people  must  pay  taxes, — and  kings  must 
have  their  sport, 

So  out  of  every  gallon — His  Grace  he  took  a 
quart. 

He  pleased  the  ladles  round  him, — with  manners 

soft  and  bland  ; 
With  reason  good,  they  named  him — the  father 

of  his  land. 
Each  year  his  mighty  armies — marched  forth  in 

gallant  show  ; 
Their  enemies  were  targets, — their  bullets  they 

were  tow. 

He  vexed  no  quiet  neighbor, — no  useless  con- 
quest made, 

But  by  the  laws  of  pleasure — his  peaceful  realm 
he  swayed. 

And  in  the  years  he  reigned, — through  all  this 
country  wide. 

There  was  no  cause  for  weeping, — save  when 
the  good  man  died. 

The  faithful    men  of    Brentford — do   still    their 

king  deplore. 
His  portrait  yet  is  swinging — beside  an  alehouse 

door. 
And  topers,   tender-hearted, — regard  his  honest 

phiz, 
And    envy  times  departed, — that   knew  a  reign 

like  his. 


138        IMITATION'S  OF  BERAXGER. 


LE   GRENIER. 

Je  viens  revoir  I'asile  ou  ma  jeunesse 
De  la  misere  a  subi  les  le5ons. 
J'avais  vingt  ans,  une  folle  maitresse, 
De  francs  amis  et  I'amour  des  chansons. 
Bravant  le  monde  et  les  sots  et  les  sages, 
Sans  avenir,  riche  de  mon  printemps, 
Leste  et  joyeux  je  montais  six  etages. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans  ! 

C'est  un  grenier,  point  ne  veux  qu'on  rignore, 
I^a  fut  nion  lit,  bien  chetif  et  bien  dur  ; 
La  fut  ma  table  ;  et  je  retrouve  encore 
Trois  pieds  d'un  vers  charbonnes  sur  le  niur. 
Apparaissez,  plaisirs  de  mon  bel  age, 
Que  d'un  coup  d'aile  a  fustiges  le  temps  : 
Vingt  fois  pour  vous  j'ai  mis  ma  montre  en  gage, 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans  \ 

Lisette  ici  doit  surtout  apparaitre, 
Vive,  jolie,  avec  un  frais  chapeau  ; 
Deja  sa  main  a  I'etroite  fenetre 
Suspend  son  schal,  en  guise  de  rideau. 
Sa  robe  aussi  va  parer  ma  couchette  ; 
Respecte,  Amour,  ses  plis  longs  et  fiottans. 
T'ai  su  depuis  qui  payait  sa  toilette. 
Dans  uu  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans  i 

A  table  un  jour,  jour  de  grande  richesse, 
De  mes  amis  les  voix  brillaient  en  chceur, 
Quand  jusqu'ici  monte  un  cri  d'allegresse  : 
A  Marengo  Bonaparte  est  vainqucur. 
Le  canon  gronde  ;  un  autre  chant  commence  ; 
Nous  cel6brons  tant  de  faits  eclatans. 
Les  rois  jamais  n'envahiront  la  France, 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans  ! 


THE  GARRET.  1 39 

Quittons  ce  toit  oil  ma  raison  s'6nivre. 
Oh  !  quil's  sont  loin  ces  jours  si  regrettes  ! 
J'echanj^erais  ce  qu'il  me  reste  a  vivre 
Contre  un  dcs  mois  qu'ici  Dieu  m'a  comptes, 
Pour  rever  gloire,  amour,  plaisir,  folie, 
P'our  depenser  sa  vie  en  peu  d'instans, 
D'un  long  espoir  pour  la  voir  embellie. 
Dans  un  grenier  qu'on  est  bien  a  vingt  ans  ! 


THE    GARRET. 

With  pensive  eyes  the  little  room  I  view, 

Where,  in  my  youth,  1  weathered  it  so  long, 
With  a  svild  mistress,  a  stanch  friend  or  two. 

And  a  light  heart  still  breaking  into  song  : 
Making  a  mock  of  life,  and  all  its  cares, 

Rich  in  the  glory  of  my  rising  sun. 
Lightly  I  vaulted  up  four  pair  of  stairs, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

Yes  ;  'tis  a  garret — let  him  knov.-'t  who  will — 

There  was  my  bed — full  hard  it  was  and  small  ; 
My  table  there — and  I  decipher  still 

Half  a  lame  couplet  charcoaled  on  the  v/all. 
Ve  joys,  tliat  Time  hath  swept  with  him  away, 

Come  to  mine  eyes,  ye  dreams  of  love  and  fun  ; 
For  you  I  pawned  my  watch  how  many  a  day. 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

And  see  my  little  Jessy,  first  of  all  ; 

She  comes  wilh   pouting   lips   and   sparkling 
eyes  : 
Behold,  hov.'  roguishly  she  pins  her  shawl 

Across  the  narrow  casement,  curtain-wise  : 


140        IMITATIONS  OF  BER ANGER. 

Now  by  the  bed  her  petticoat  glides  down, 

And  when  did  women  look  the  worse  in  none  ? 

I  have  heard  since  who  paid  for  many  a  gown, 
In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

One  jolly  evening,  when  my  friends  and  I 

Made  happy  music  with  our  songs  and  cheers, 
A  shout  of  triumph  mounted  up  thus  high, 

And  distant  cannon  opened  on  our  ears  ; 
We  rise, — we  join  in  the  triumphant  strain, — 

Napoleon  conquers — Austerlitz  is  won — 
Tyrants  shall  never  tread  us  down  again, 

In  the  brave  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 

Let  us  begone — the  place  is  sad  and  strange — 

How  far,  far  off,  these  happy  times  appear  ; 
All  that  I  have  to  live  I'd  gladly  change 

For  one  such  month  as  I  have  wasted  here — 
To  draw  long  dreams  of  beauty,  love,  and  power, 

From  founts  of  hope  that  never  v/ill  outrun, 
And  drink  all  life's  quintessence  in  an  hour, 

Give  me  the  days  when  I  was  twenty-one. 


ROGER-BONTEMPS. 

Aux  gens  atrabilaires 
Pour  exemple  donne, 
En  un  temps  de  miseres 
Roger-Bontemps  est  ne. 
Vivre  obscur  a  sa  guise, 
Narguer  les  mecontens  ; 
Eh  gai  1  c'est  la  devise 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


ROGER-BONTEMPS.  141 

Du  chapeau  de  son  pere 
Coiffe  dans  les  grands  jours, 
De  roses  ou  de  lierre 
Le  rajeunir  toujours  ; 
Mettre  un  manteau  de  bure, 
Vieil  ami  de  vingt  ans  ; 
Eh  gai  !  c'est  la  parure 
Du  g^os  Roger-Bontemps. 

Posseder  dans  sa  hutte 
Une  table,  un  vieux  lit, 
Des  cartes,  une  flute, 
Un  broc  que  Dieu  remplit  ; 
Un  portrait  de  maitresse, 
Un  coffre  et  rien  dedans  ; 
Eh  gai  !  c'est  la  richesse 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Aux  enfans  de  la  ville 
Montrer  de  petits  jeux  ; 
Etre  fesseur  habile 
De  contes  graveleux  ; 
Ne  parler  que  de  danse 
Et  d'almanachs  chautans : 
Eh  gai  !  c'est  la  science 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Faute  de  vins  d 'elite, 
Sabler  ceux  du  canton  : 
Pr6f6rer  Marguerite 
Aux  dames  du  grand  ton  : 
De  joie  et  de  tendresse 
Remplir  tous  ses  instans  : 
Eh  gai  !  c'est  la  sagesse 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Dire  au  ciel  :  Je  me  fie,^ 
Mon  pfere,  h.  ta  bonte  ; 


142        IMITATIONS   OF  BER ANGER. 

De  ma  philosophie 
Pardonne  le  gaite  : 
Que  ma  saisoii  derniere 
Soit  encore  un  printemps  ; 
Eh  gai  !  c'est  la  priere 
Du  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 

Vous  pauvres  pleins  d'envie, 
Vous  riches  desireux, 
Vous,  dont  le  char  devie 
Apres  un  cours  heureux  ; 
Vous,  qui  perdrez  peut-etre 
Des  litres  eclatans, 
Eh  gai  !  prenez  pour  maitre 
Le  gros  Roger-Bontemps. 


JOLLY  JACK. 

When  fierce  political  debate 

Throughout  the  isle  was  storming. 
And  Rads  attacked  the  throne  and  state. 

And  Tories  the  reforming. 
To  claim  the  furious  rage  of  each, 

And  right  the  land  demented. 
Heaven  sent  us  Jolly  Jack,  to  teach 

The  way  to  be  contented. 

Jack's  bed  was  straw,  'twas  warm  and  soft, 

His  chair,  a  three-legged  stool  ; 
His  broken  jug  was  emptied  oft, 

Yet,  somehow,  always  full. 
His  mistress'  portrait  decked  the  wall. 

His  mirror  had  a  crack  ; 
Yet,  gay  and  glad,  though  this  was  all 

His  wealth,  lived  Jolly  Jack. 


JOLLY  JACK.  143 

To  gdve  advice  to  avarice, 

Teach  pride  its  mean  condition, 
And  preach  good  sense  to  dull  pretence, 

Was  honest  Jack's  high  mission. 
Our  simple  statesman  found  his  rule 

Of  moral  in  the  flagon, 
7\nd  held  his  philosophic  school 

Beneath  the  "  George  and  Dragon." 

When  village  Solons  cursed  the  Lords, 

And  called  the  malt-ta.x  sinful. 
Jack  heeded  not  their  angry  words. 

But  smiled  and  drank  his  skinful. 
And  when  men  wasted  health  and  life 

In  search  of  rank  and  riches, 
Jacic  marked  aloc^the  paltry  strife, 

And  wore  his  tffreadbare  breeches. 

"  I  enter  not  the  church,"  he  said, 

"  But  I'll  not  seek  to  rob  it ;" 
So  worthy  Jack  Joe  Miller  read. 

While  others  studied  Cobbett. 
His  talk  it  was  of  feast  and  fun  ; 

His  guide  the  Almanack  ; 
From  youth  to  age  thus  gayly  run 

The  Hfe  of  Jolly  Jack. 

And  when  Jack  prayed,  as  oft  he  would, 

He  humbly  thanked  his  IMaker  ; 
"  I  am,"  said  he.  "  O  Father  good  ! 

Nor  Catholic  nor  Quaker  : 
Give  each  his  creed,  let  each  proclaim 

His  catalogue  of  curses  ; 
I  trust  in  Thee,  and  not  in  them. 

In  Thee  and  in  Thy  mercies  ! 

"  Forgive  me  if,  midst  all  Thy  works, 
No  hint  I  see  of  damning  ; 


144        IMITATIONS  OF  BER ANGER. 

And  think  there's  faith  among  the  Turks, 
And  hope  for  e'en  the  Brahmin. 

Harmless  my  mind  is,  and  my  mirth, 
And  kindly  is  my  laughter  ; 

I  cannot  see  the  smiling  earth. 
And  think  there's  hell  hereafter." 

Jack  died  ;  he  left  no  legacy, 

Save  that  his  story  teaches  : — 
Content  to  peevish  poverty  ; 

Humility  to  riches. 
Ye  scornful  great,  ye  envious  small, 

Come  follow  in  his  track  ; 
We  all  were  happier,  if  we  all 

Would  copy  Jolly  Jack. 


IMITATION  OF  HORACE. 


TO  HIS  SERVING  BOY. 

Persicos  odi, 
Puer,  apparatus  ; 
Displicent  nexse 
Philyra  coronae  : 
Mitte  sectari, 
Rosa  quo  locorum 
Sera  moretur. 

Simplici  myrto 
Nihil  allabores 
Sedulus,  euro : 
Neque  te  ministrum 
Dedecet  myrtus, 
Neque  me  sub  arcta 
Vite  bibentem. 


AD  MINISTRAM. 

Dear  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is, 
I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss  : 

Your  silly  entries  and  made  dishes 
Were  never  intended  for  us. 


146  IMITATION  OF  HORACE. 

No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 
Need  dangle  behind  my  arm-chair  ; 

And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles, 
Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 

But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucy, 

I  prithee  get  ready  at  three  : 
Have  it  smoking,  and  tender  and  juicy. 

And  what  better  meat  can  there  be  ? 
And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 

'Twill  amply  suffice  for  the  m.aid  ; 
Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster, 

And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 


OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW 
FACES. 


THE  KNIGHTLY  GUERDON.* 

Untrue  to  my  Ulric  I  never  could  be, 
I  vow  by  the  saints  and  the  blessed  Marie, 
Since  the  desolate  hour  when  we  stood   by  the 

shore, 
And  your  dark  galley  waited  to  carry  you  o'er  : 
My  faith  then  I  plighted,  my  love  1  confess'd, 
As  I  gave  you  the  Battle-axe  marked  with  your 

crest ! 

♦"WAPPING  OLD  STAIRS." 

"  Your  Molly  has  never  been  false,  she  declares. 
Since  ihe  last  time  we  parted  at  Wapping  Old  Stairs  ; 
When  I  said  that  I  would  continue  the  same, 
And  gave  you  the  'bacco-box  marked  with  my  name. 
When  I  passed  a  whole  fortnight  between  decks  with  you, 
Did  I  e'er  give  a  kiss,  Tom,  to  one  of  your  crew  ? 
To  be  useful  and  kind  to  my  Thomas  1  stay'd, 
For  his  trousers  I  washed,  and  his  grog  too  I  made. 

"  Though  you  promised  la>;t  Sund  ly  to  walk  in  the  Mall 

With  Susan  from  Deptford  and  likewise  with  Sail, 

In  silence  I  stood  your  unkindness  to  hear, 

And  only  upbraided  my  Tom  with  a  tear. 

Why  should   Sail,   or  should   Susan,  than  me  be    more 

prized  ? 
For  the  heart  that  is  true,  Tom,  should  ne'er  be  despised. 
Then  be  constant  and  kind,  nor  your  MoUy  forsake  ; 
Still  your  trousers  I'll  wash,  and  your  grog  too  I '11  make," 


148     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 

When  the  bold  barons  met  in  my  father's  old  hall, 
Was  not  Edith  the  flower  of  the  banquet  and  ball  ? 
In  the  festival  hour,  on  the  lips  of  your  bride, 
Was  there  ever  a  smile  save  with  Thee  at  my 

side  ? 
Alone  in  my  turret  I  loved  to  sit  best, 
To  blazon  your  Banner  and  broider  your  crest. 

The   knights   were   assembled,  the  tourney  was 

gay  ! 
Sir  Ulric  rode  first  in  the  warrior-melee. 
In    the  dire  battle-hour,  when  the  tourney  was 

done, 
And  you  gave  to  another  the  wreath  you  had  won  ! 
Though  I  never  reproached  thee,  cold,  cold  was 

my  breast. 
As  I  thought  of  that  Battle-axe,  ah !  and  that 

crest  \ 

But  away  with  remembrance,  no  more  will  I  pine 
That  others  usurped  for  a  time  what  was  mine  ! 
There's  a  Festival  Hour  for  my  Ulric  and  me  : 
Once  more,  as  of  old,  shall  he  bend  at  my  knee  ; 
Once  more  by  the  side  of  the  knight  I  love  best 
Shall  I  blazon  his  Banner  and  broider  his  crest. 


THE  ALMACK'S  ADIEU. 

Your  Fanny  was  never  false-hearted. 

And  this  she  protests  and  she  vows. 
From  the  trist^  moment  when  we  parted 

On  the  staircase  of  Devonshire  House  ! 
I  blushed  when  you  asked  me  to  marrj-, 

I  vowed  I  would  never  forget  ; 
And  at  parting  I  gave  my  dear  Harry 

A  beautiful  vinegarette  ! 


WHEN   THE   GLOOM  IS  ON.         1 49 

We  spent  en  province  all  December, 

And  I  ne'er  condescended  to  look 
At  Sir  Charles,  or  the  rich  county  member. 

Or  even  at  that  darling  old  Duke. 
You  were  busy  with  dogs  and  with  horses. 

Alone  in  my  chamber  1  sat, 
And  made  you  the  nicest  of  purses. 

And  the  smartest  black  satin  cravat ! 

At  night  with  that  vile  Lady  Frances 

(^Fe  faisois  iiioi  iaj)isserie) 
You  danced  every  one  of  the  dances, 

And  never  once  thought  of  poor  me  ! 
Man pauvre petit  caiu- 1  what  a  shiver 

I  felt  as  she  danced  the  last  set  ; 
And  you  gave,  O  mon  Dieu  !  to  revive  her 

My  beautiful  vinegarette  ! 

Return,  love  !  away  with  coquetting  ; 

This  flirting  disgraces  a  man  ! 
And  ah  !  all  the  while  you're  forgetting 

The  heart  of  your  poor  little  Fan  ! 
Reviens  !  break  away  from  those  Circes, 

Reviens,  for  a  nice  little  chat ; 
And  I've  made  you  the  sweetest  of  purses, 
And  a  lovely  black  satin  cravat  ! 


WHEN  THE  GLOOM  IS  ON  THE  GLEN. 

When  the  moonlight's  on  the  mountain 

And  the  gloom  is  on  the  glen, 
At  the  cross  beside  the  fountain 

There  is  one  will  meet  thee  then. 
At  the  cross  beside  the  fountain. 

Yes,  the  cross  beside  the  fountain, 
There  is  one  will  meet  thee  then  ! 


150     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 

I  have  braved,  since  first  we  met,  love, 

Many  a  danger  in  my  course  ; 
But  I  never  can  forget,  love, 

That  dear  fountain,  that  old  cross. 
Where,  her  mantle  shrouded  o'er  her — 

For  the  winds  were  chilly  then — 
First  I  met  my  Leonora, 

When  the  gloom  was  on  the  glen. 

Many  a  clime  Fve  ranged  since  then,  love, 

l^.Iany  a  land  I've  wandered  o'er  ; 
But  a  valley  like  that  glen,  love, 

Half  so  dear  I  never  sor  ! 
Ne'er  saw  maiden  fairer,  coyer. 

Than  wert  thou,  my  true  love,  when 
In  the  gloaming  first  I  saw  yer. 

In  the  gloaming  of  the  glen  ! 


THE  RED  FLAG. 

Where  the  quivering  lightning  flings 

His  arrows  from  out  the  clouds. 
And  the  howling  tempest  sings 

And  whistles  among  the  shrouds, 
'Tis  pleasant,  'tis  pleasant  to  ride 

Along  the  foaming  brine — 
Wilt  be  the  Rover's  bride  ? 

Wilt  follow  him,  lady  mine  ? 
Hurrah  ! 

For  the  bonny,  bonny  brine. 

Amidst  the  storm  and  rack. 
You  shall  see  our  galley  pass. 

As  a  serpent,  lithe  and  biack, 

Glides  through  the  waving  grass. 


DEAR   JACK.  I 

As  the  vulture,  swift  and  dark, 

Down  on  the  ring-dove  flies, 
You  shall  see  the  Rover's  bark 

Swoop  down  upon  his  prize. 
Hurrah  ! 

For  the  bonny,  bonny  prize. 

Over  her  sides  we  dash, 

We  gallop  across  her  deck — 
Ha  !  there's  a  ghastly  gash 

On  the  merchant-captain's  neck — 
Well  shot,  well  shot,  old  Ned  ! 

Well  struck,  well  struck,  black  James  ! 
Our  arms  are  red,  and  our  foes  are  dead, 

And  we  leave  a  ship  in  flames  I 
Hurrah  ! 

For  the  bonny,  bonny  flames  \ 


DEAR  JACK. 

Dear  Jack,  this  white  mug  that  with  Guinness  I 

fill. 
And  drink  to  the  health  of  sweet  Nan  of  the  Hill, 
Was  once  Tommy  Tosspot's,  as  jovial  a  sot 
As  e'er  drew  a  spigot,  or  drained  a  full  pot — 
In  drinking  all  round  'twas  his  joy  to  surpass. 
And  with  all  merry  tipplers   he  swigg'd  off  his 

glass. 

One  morning  in  summer,  while  seated  so  snug, 
In  the  porch  of  his  garden,  discussing  his  jug. 
Stern  Death  on  a  sudden,  to  Tom  did  appear. 
And  said,    "Honest  Thomas,  come   take    your 

last  bier." 
We  kneaded  his  clay  in  the  shape  of  this  can. 
From  which  let  us  drink  to  the  health  of  my  Nan. 


1 5  2     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 


COMMANDERS  OF  THE  FAITHFUL. 

The  Pope  he  is  a  happy  man, 

His  Palace  is  the  Vatican, 

And  there  he  sits  and  drains  his  can  : 

The  Pope  he  is  a  happy  man. 

I  often  say  when  I'm  at  home, 

I'd  Hke  to  be  the  Pope  of  Rome. 

And  then  there's  Sultan  Saladin, 
That  Turkish  Soldan  full  of  sin  ; 
He  has  a  hundred  wives  at  least. 
By  which  his  pleasure  is  increased  : 
I've  often  wished,  I  hope  no  sin. 
That  I  were  Sultan  Saladin. 

But  no,  the  Pope  no  wife  may  choose, 
And  so  I  would  not  wear  his  shoes  ; 
No  wine  may  drink  the  proud  Paynim, 
And  so  I'd  rather  not  be  him  : 
My  wife,  my  wine,  I  love,  I  hope, 
And  would  be  neither  Turk,  nor  Pope. 


WHEN    MOONLIKE     ORE    THE 
HAZURE  SEAS. 

When  moonlike  ore  the  hazure  seas 

In  soft  effulgence  swells, 
When  silver  jews  and  balmy  breaze 

Bend  down  the  Lily's  bells  ; 
When  calm  and  deap,  the  rosy  sleap 

Has  lapt  your  soal  in  dreems, 
R  Hangeline  !  R  lady  mine  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 


KING   CANUTE.  1 53 

I  mark  thee  in  the  Marble  All, 

Where  England's  loveliest  shine — 
I  say  the  fairest  of  them  hall 

Is  Lady  Hangeline. 
My  soul,  in  desolate  eclipse, 

With  recollection  teems — 
And  then  I  hask,  with  weeping  lips, 

Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 

Away  !  I  may  not  tell  thee  hall 

This  soughring  heart  endures — 
There  is  a  lonely  sperrit-call 

That  Sorrow  never  cures  ; 
There  is  a  little,  little  Star, 

That  still  above  me  beams  ; 
It  is  the  Star  of  Hope — but  ar  ! 

Dost  thou  remember  Jeames  ? 


KING   CANUTE. 

King    Canute    was   weary-hearted  ;     he    had 

reigned  for  years  a  score, 
Battling,  struggling,    pushing,    fighting,   killing 

much  and  robbing  more  ; 
And  he  thought  upon  his  actions,  walking  by  the 

wild  sea-shore. 

'Twixt  the  Chancellor  and  Bishop   walked   the 

King  with  steps  sedate, 
Chamberlains  and  grooms  came  after,  silversticks 

and  goldsticks  great. 
Chaplains,   aides-de-camp,    and  pages, — all    the 

officers  of  state. 


154     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 

Sliding  ter  like  his  shadow,  pausing  when  he 
chose  to  pause, 

If  a  frown  his  face  contracted,  straight  the  court- 
iers dropped  their  jaws  ; 

If  to  laugh  the  King  was  minded,  out  they  burst 
in  loud  hee-haws. 

But  that  day  a  something  vexed  him,  that  was 

clear  to  old  and  young  : 
Thrice  his  Grace  had  yawned  at  table,  when  his 

favorite  glecmen  sung, 
Once  the  Queen  would  have   consoled  him,  but 

he  bade  her  hold  her  tongue. 

"  Something  ails  my  g^racious  master,"  cried  the 
Keeper  of  the  Seal. 

"  Sure,  my  lord,  it  is  the  lampreys  served  to  din- 
ner, or  the  veal  ?" 

"  Psha  !"  exi'laimed  the  angry  monarch.  "  Keep- 
er, 'tis   not  that  I  feel. 

"  'Tis  the   heart,  and   not   the    dinner,  fool,  that 

doth  my  rest  impair  : 
Can  a  king  be  great  as  I   am,  prithee,    and  yet 

know  no  care  ? 
Oh,  I'm  sick,  and  tired,  and  weary." — Some  one 

cried,  "  The  King's  arm-chair  !" 

Then  towards  the  lackeys  turning,  quick  my  Lord 

the  Keeper  nodded. 
Straight  the  King's  great  chair  was  brought  him 

by  two  footmen  able-bodied  ; 
Languidly  he  sank  into  it :  it  was   comfortably 

wadded. 

"  Leading  on  my  fierce  companions,"  cried  he, 
over  storm  and  brine, 


A'ImYG   CANUTE. 


^55 


I  have  fought  and  I  have  conquered  !      Where 

was  gloiy  Hke  to  mine  ?" 
Loudly   all    the   courtiers   echoed :    "  Where   is 

glory  like  to  thine  ?" 

' '  What  avail  me  all  my  kingdoms  ?     Weary  am 

I  now  and  old  ; 
Those  fair  sons  I  have  begotten  long  to  see  me 

dead  and  cold  ; 
Would  I  were,  and  quiet  buried    underneath  the 

silent  mould  ! 

"  Oh,  remorse,  the  writhing  serpent  !  at  my  bo- 
som tears  and  bites  ; 

Horrid,  horrid  things  I  look  on,  though  I  put 
out  all  the  lights  ; 

Ghosts  of  ghastly  recollections  troop  about  my 
bed  at  nights. 

"Cities  burning,  convents  blazing,  red  with  sac- 
rilegious fires  ; 

Mothers  weeping,  virgins  screaming  vainly  for 
their  slaughtered  sires." — 

"  Such  a  tender  conscience,"  cries  the  Bishop, 
' '  ever)'  one  admires. 

"But   for   such    unpleasant   bygones   cease,  my 

gracious  lord,  to  search. 
They're   forgotten   and   forgiven   by   our   Holy 

Mother  Church  ; 
Never,  never  does  she  leave  her  benefactors  in 

the  lurch. 

"  Look  !  the  land  is  crowned  with  minsters, 
which  your  Grace's  bounty  raised  ; 

Abbeys  rilled  with  holy  men,  where  you  and 
Heaven  are  daily  praised  : 


156     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 

You,  my  lord,  to  think  of  dying  ?  on  my  con- 
science I'm  amazed  !" 

"  Nay,  I  feel,"  replied  King  Canute,  "that  my 

end  is  drawing  near." 
"  Don't  say  so,"  exclaimed  the  courtiers  (striving 

each  to  squeeze  a  tear). 
' '  Sure  your  Grace  is  strong  and  lusty,  and  may 

live  this  fifty  year." 

"Live   these   fifty  years?"  the    Bishop   roared, 

with  actions  made  to  suit. 
' '  Are  you  mad  my  good   Lord   Keeper,  thus  to 

speak  of  King  Canute  ? 
Men  have  lived  a  thousand   years,  and  sure  his 

Majesty  will  do't. 

"Adam,  Enoch,  Lamech,  Cainan,  Mahaleel, 
Methusela, 

Lived  nine  hundred  years  apiece,  and  mayn't  the 
King  as  well  as  they  ?" 

"  Fervently,"  exclaimed  the  Keeper,  "Fervent- 
ly I  trust  he  may." 

'''He  to   die?"  resumed   the   Bishop.     "He  a 

mortal  like  to  us? 
Death  was  not  for  him  intended,  though  co»i»nt- 

nis  omnibus  : 
Keeper,  you  are  irreligious  for  to  talk  and  cavil 

thus. 

' '  With  his  wondrous  skill  in  healing  ne'er  a  doc- 
can  compete. 

Loathsome  lepers,  if  he  touch  them,  start  up  clean 
upon  their  feet  ; 

Surely  he  could  raise  the  dead  up,  did  his  High- 
ness think  it  meet. 


KING   CANUTE.  157 

"  Did  not  once  the  Jewish   captain   stay  the  sun 

upon  the  hill, 
And,  the  while  he  slew  the  foemen,  bid  the  silver 

moon  stand  still  ? 
So,  no  doubt,  could  gracious  Canute,  if  it  were 

his  sacred  will." 

"  Might  I  stay  the  sun  above  us,  good  Sir  Bish- 
op ?"  Canute  cried  ; 

"  Could  I  bid  the  silver  moon  to  pause  upon  her 
heavenly  ride  ? 

If  the  moon  obeys  my  orders,  sure  I  can  com- 
mand the  tide. 

"  Will  the  advancing  waves  obey  me,  Bishop,  if 

I  make  the  sign  ?" 
Said  the  Bishop,  bowing  lowly,  "  Land  and  sea, 

my  lord,  are  thine." 
Canute  turned   towards  the   ocean — "  Back  !"  he 

said,  "  thou  foaming  brine. 

"  From  the  sacred  shore  I  stand  on,  I  command 

thee  to  retreat ; 
Venture  not,  thou  stormy  rebel,  to  approach  thy 

master's  seat  : 
Ocean,  be  thou  still  !  I  bid  thee  come  not  nearer 

to  my  feet  !" 

But  the  sullen  ocean  answered  with  a  louder, 
deeper  roar, 

And  the  rapid  waves  drew  nearer,  falling  sound- 
ing on  the  shore  ; 

Back  the  Keeper  and  the  Bishop,  back  the  King 
and  courtiers  bore. 

And  he  sternly  bade  them  never  more  to  kneel  to 
human  clay. 


158     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 

But  alone  to  praise  and  worship  That  which  earth 

and  seas  obey  : 
And  his  golden  crown  of   empire  never  wore  he 

from  that  day. 
King  Canute  is  dead  and  gone  :  Parasites  exist 

alway. 


FRIAR'S   SONG. 

Some  love  the  matin-chimes,  which  tell 

The  hour  of  prayer  to  sinner  : 
But  better  far's  the  mid-day  bell, 

Which  speaks  the  hour  of  dinner  ; 
For  when  I  see  a  smoking  fish, 

Or  capon  drown'd  in  gravy, 
Or  noble  haunch  on  silver  dish, 

Full  glad  I  sing  my  ave. 

My  pulpit  is  an  alehouse  bench, 

Whereon  I  sit  so  jolly  ; 
A  smiling  rosy  country  wench 

My  saint  and  patron  holy. 
I  kiss  her  cheek  so  red  and  sleek, 

I  press  her  ringlets  wavy. 
And  in  her  willing  ear  I  speak 

A  most  religious  ave. 

And  if  I'm  blind,  yet  Heaven  is  kind. 

And  holy  saints  forgiving  ; 
For  sure  he  leads  a  right  good  life 

Who  thus  admires  good  living. 
Above,  they  say,  our  flesh  is  air. 

Our  blood  celestial  ichor  : 
Oh,  grant !  'mid  all  the  changes  there. 

They  may  not  change  our  liquor  ! 


REQUIESCAT.  159 


ATRA  CURA. 


Before  I  lost  my  five  poor  wits, 

I  mind  me  of  a  Romish  clerk, 

Who  sang  how  Care,  the  phantom  dark. 

Beside  the  belted  horseman  sits. 

Methought  I  saw  the  grisly  sprite 

Jump  up  but  now  behind  my  Knight. 

And  though  he  gallop  as  he  may, 
I  mark  that  cursed  monster  black 
Still  sits  behind  his  honor's  back, 
Tight  squeezing  of  his  heart  alway. 
Like  two  black  Templars  sit  they  there. 
Beside  one  crupper,  Knight  and  Care. 

No  knight  am  I  with  pennoned  spear, 
To  prance  upon  a  bold  destrere  : 
I  will  not  have  black  Care  prevail 
Upon  my  long-eared  charger's  tail ; 
For  lo,  I  am  a  witless  fool. 
And  laugh  at  Grief  and  ride  a  mule. 


REQUIESCAT, 

Under  the  stone  you  behold. 
Buried,  and  coffined,  and  cold, 
Lieth  Sir  Wilfrid  the  Bold. 

Always  he  marched  in  advance, 
Warring  in  Flanders  and  France, 
Doughtly  with  sword  and  with  lance. 


l6o     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 

Famous  in  Saracen  fight, 

Rode  in  his  youth  the  good  knight, 

Scattering  Paynims  in  flight. 

Brian,  the  Templar  untrue, 
Fairly  in  tourney  he  slew. 
Saw  Hierusalem  too. 

Now  he  is  buried  and  gone. 
Lying  beneath  the  gray  stone  : 
Where  shall  you  find  such  a  one  ? 

Long  time  his  widow  deplored, 
Weeping  the  fate  of  her  lord. 
Sadly  cut  off  by  the  sword. 

When  she  was  eased  of  her  pain, 
Came  the  good  Lord  Athelstane, 
When  her  ladyship  married  again 


THE  WILLOW-TREE. 

Know  ye  the  willow-tree 

Whose  gray  leaves  quiver, 
Whispering  gloomily 

To  yon  pale  river  ? 
Lady,  at  even-tide 

Wander  not  near  it : 
They  say  its  branches  hide 

A  sad,  lost  spirit  ! 

Once  to  the  willow-tree 
A  maid  came  fearful  ; 

Pale  seemed  her  cheek  to  be, 
Her  blue  eye  tearful. 


THE    WILLOW-TREE.  l6l 

Soon  as  she  saw  the  tree, 

Her  step  moved  fleeter  ; 
No  one  was  there — ah  me  ! 

No  one  to  meet  her  ! 

Quick  beat  her  heart  to  hear 

The  far  bells'  chime 
Toll  from  the  chapel-tower 

The  trysting  time  : 
But  the  red  sun  went  down 

In  golden  flame, 
And  though  she  looked  round, 

Yet  no  one  came  ! 

Presently  came  the  night, 

Sadly  to  greet  her, — 
Moon  in  her  silver  light. 

Stars  in  their  glitter  ; 
Then  sank  the  moon  away 

Under  the  billow. 
Still  wept  the  maid  alone — 

There  by  the  willow  ! 

Through  the  long  darkness. 

By  the  stream  rolling, 
Hour  after  hour  went  on 

Tolling  and  tolling. 
Long  was  the  darkness, 

Lonely  and  stilly  ; 
Shrill  came  the  night-wind. 

Piercing  and  chilly. 

Shrill  blew  the  morning  breeze. 

Biting  and  cold, 
Bleak  peers  the  gray  dawn 

Over  the  wold. 


1 62     OLD  FRIENDS   WITH  NEW  FACES. 

Bleak  over  moor  and  stream 

Looks  the  gray  dawn, 
Gray,  with  dishevelled  hair. 
Still  stands  the  willow  there — 

The  maid  is  gone  ! 

,    Dotnine,  Doniine ! 

Sing  we  a  litany, — 
Sing  for  the  poor  maiden-hearts  broken  and  weary; 

Doinine,  Domine  I 

Sing  we  a  litany. 
Wail  we  and  weep  we  a   wild  Miserere  ! 


THE  WILLOW-TREE. 

(another  version.) 


Long  by  the  willow-tree 
Vainly  they  sought  her. 

Wild  rang  the  mother's  screams 
O'er  the  gray  water  ; 

"Where  is  my  lovely  one  ? 
Where  is  my  daughter  ? 


"  Rouse  thee,  sir  constable — 
Rouse  thee  and  look  ; 

Fisherman,  bring  your  net. 
Boatman  your  hook. 

Beat  in  the  lily-beds. 
Dive  in  the  brook  '" 


THE    WJLLOVV-TREE.  l6^ 

III. 

Vainly  the  constable 

Shouted  and  called  her  ; 
Vainly  the  fisherman 

Beat  the  green  alder. 
Vainly  he  flung  the  net. 

Never  it  hauled  her  ! 


Mother  beside  the  fire 
Sat,  her  nightcap  in  ; 

Father,  in  easy  chair. 
C;ioomily  napping. 

When  at  the  window-sill 
Came  a  light  tapping  ! 


And  a  pale  countenance 

Looked  through  the  casement. 
Loud  beat  the  mother's  heart 

Sick  with  amazement, 
And  at  the  vision  which 

Came  to  surprise  her, 
Shrieked  in  an  agony — 

"  Lor!  it'§  Elizar  !" 


Yes,  'twas  Elizabeth — 

Yes,  'twas  their  girl  ; 
Pale  was  her  cheek,  and  her 

Hair  out  of  curl. 
"  Mother  !"  the  loving  one, 

Blushing,  exclaimed, 
"  Let  not  your  innocent 

Lizzv  be  blamed. 


164     OLD  FRIENDS  WITH  NEW  FACES. 


"  Yesterday,  going  to  aunt 

Jones's  to  tea, 
Mother,  dear  mother,  I 

Forgot  the  door-key  ! 
And  as  the  night  was  cold. 

And  the  way  steep, 
Mrs.  Jones  kept  me  to 

Breakfast  and  sleep." 


Whether  her  Pa  and  Ma 

Fully  believed  her. 
That  we  shall  never  know. 

Stern  they  received  her  ; 
And  for  the  work  of  that 

Cruel,  though  short,  night. 
Sent  her  to  bed  without 

Tea  for  a  fortnight. 


IX. 

Moral. 

Hey  diddle  diddlety. 

Cat  and  the  Fiddlety, 
Maidens  of  England,  take  caution  by  she! 

Let  love  and  suicide 

Never  tempt  you  aside. 
And  always  remember  to  take  the  door-key. 


LYRA  HIBERNICA. 

THE    POEMS    OF    THE    MOLONY    OF 
KILBALL  Y MOLONY. 


THE   PIMLICO   PAVILION. 

Ye  pathrons  of  janius,  Minerva  and  Vanius, 
Who  sit  on  Parnassus,  that  mountain  of  snow, 

Descind  from  your  station  and  make  observation 
Of  the  Prince's  pavilion  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

This  garden,  by  jakurs,  is  forty  poor  acres, 
(The  garner  he  tould  me,  and  sure  ought  to 
know  ;) 

And  yet  greatly  bigger,  in  size  and  in  figure. 
Than  the  Phanix  itself,  seems  the  Park  Pimlico. 

O  'tis  there  that  the  spoort  is,  when  the  Queen 
and  the  Coort  is 

Walking  magnanimous  all  of  a  row. 
Forgetful  what  state  is  among  the  pataties 

And  the  pineapple  gardens  of  sweet  Pimlico. 

There    in    blossoms    odorous    the    birds    sing  a 
chorus 
Of  "  God  save  the  Queen"  as  they  hop  to  and 
fro: 


l66  LYRA   HIBERNICA. 

And    you  sit    on  the  binches  and    hark    to  the 
finches. 
Singing  melodious  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

There  shuiting  their  phanthasies,  they  pluck  poly- 
anthuses 
That  round  in  the  gardens  resplindently  grow, 
Wid  roses  and  jessimins,  and  other  sweet  speci- 
mins, 
Would  charm  bould  Linnayus  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

Vou  see  when  you  inther,  and  stand  in  the  cin- 
ther, 
Where  the  roses,  and  necturns,  and  collyflow- 
ers  blow, 
A  hill  so  tremindous,  it  tops  the  top-windows 
Of  the  elegant  houses  of  famed  Pimlico. 

And  when  you've  ascinded  that  precipice  splindid 
You  see  on  its  summit  a  wondtherful  show — 

A  lovely  Swish  building,  all  painting  and  gilding, 
The  famous  Pavilion  of  sweet  Pimlico. 

Prince  Albert,  of  Flandthers,  that  Prince  of  Com- 
mandthers, 
(On  whom  my  best  blessings  hereby  I  bestow,) 
With  goold  and  vermilion  has  decked  that  Pavil- 
ion, 
Where  the  Queen  may  take  tay  in  her  sweet 
Pimlico. 

There's  lines  from  John  Milton  the  chamber  all 
gilt  on, 
And  pictures  beneath  them  that's  shaped  like 
a  bow  ; 
I  was  greatly  astounded  to  think  that  that  Round- 
head 
Should  find  an  admission  to  famed  Pimlico. 


THE  PIMLICO  PAVILION.  167 

0  lovely's  each  fresco,  and  most  picturesque  O  ; 
And  while  round  the  chamber  astonished  I  go, 

1  think  Dan  Maclise's  it  baits  all  the  pieces 
Surrounding  the  cottage  of  famed  Pimlico. 

Eastlake  has  the  chimney,  (a  good  one  to  limn  he,) 
And  a  vargin  he  paints  with  a  sarpent  below  ; 

While  bulls,  pigs,  and  panthers,  and  other  cn- 
chanthers. 
Are  painted  by  Landseer  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

And  nature  smiles  opposite,  Stanfield  he  copies  it ; 

O'er  Claude  or  Poussang  sure  'tis  he  that  may 
crow  : 
But  Sir  Ross's  best  faiture  is  small  miniature — 

He  shouldn't  paint  frescoes  in  famed  Pimlico. 

There's    Leslie    and    Uwins    has    rather    small 
doings  ; 
There's    Dyce,  as  brave  masther  as  England 
can  show  ; 
And  the  flowers  and  the  sthrawberries,  sure  he 
no  dauber  is. 
That  painted  the  panels  of  famed  Pimlico. 

In  the  pictures  from  Walther  Scott,  never  a  fault 
there's  got. 
Sure  the  marble's  as  natural  as  thrue  Scaglio  ; 
And  the  Chamber  Pompayen  is  sweet  to  take  tay 
in, 
And  ait  butther'd  muffins  in  sweet  Pimlico. 

There's    landscapes    by  Gruner,   both  solar  and 
lunar, 
Them  two  little  Doyles,  too,  deserve  a  bravo  ; 
Wid  de  piece  by  young  Townsend,  (for  janius 
abounds  in't  ;) 
And  that's  why  he's  shuited  to  paint  Pimlico. 


l68  LYRA   HIBERNICA. 

That  picture  of  Severn's  is  worthy  of  rever'nce 
But  some  I  won't  mintion  is  rather  so  so  ; 

For  sweet  philosophy,  or  crumpets  and  coffee, 
O  Where's  a  Pavilion  like  sweet  Pimlico  ? 

O  to  praise  this  Pavilion  would  puzzle  Quintilian, 
Daymosthenes,  Brougham,  or  young  Cicero  : 

So,  heavenly  Goddess,  d'ye  pardon  my  modesty, 
And  silence,  my  lyre  !  about  sweet  Pimlico. 


THE    CRYSTAL    PALACE, 

With  janial  foire 

Transfuse  me  loyre. 
Ye  sacred  nymphs  of  Pindus, 

The  whoile  I  sing 

That  wondthrous  thing, 
The  Palace  made  o'  windows  ! 

Say,  Paxton,  truth, 

Thou  wondthrous  youth, 
What  sthroke  of  art  celistial. 

What  power  was  lint 

You  to  invint 
This  combineetion  cristial. 

O  would  before 

That  Thomas  Moore, 
Likewoise  the  late  Lord  Boyron, 

Thim  aigles  sthrong 

Of  godlike  song, 
Cast  oi  on  that  cast  oiron  ! 

And  saw  thim  walls. 
And  glittering  halls, 
Thim  rising  slendther  columns. 


THE  CRYSTAL  PALACE.  169 

Which  I,  poor  pote, 
Could  not  denote, 
No,  not  in  twinty  voUums. 

My  Muse's  words 

Is  like  the  bird's 
That  roosts  beneath  the  panes  there  ; 

Her  wings  she  spoils 

'Gainst  them  bright  toiles. 
And  cracks  her  silly  brains  there. 

This  Palace  tall, 

This  Cristial  Hall, 
Which  Imperors  might  covet. 

Stands  in  High  Park 

Like  Noah's  Ark, 
A  rainbow  bint  above  it. 

The  towers  and  fanes. 

In  other  scaynes. 
The  fame  of  this  will  undo. 

Saint  Paul's  big  doom, 

Saint  Payther's  Room, 
And  Dublin's  proud  Rotundo. 

'Tis  here  that  roams, 

As  well  becomes 
Her  dignitee  and  stations, 

Victoria  Great, 

And  houlds  in  state 
The  Congress  of  the  Nations. 

Her  subjects  pours 

From  distant  shores, 
Her  Injians  and  Canadians  ; 

And  also  we. 

Her  kingdoms  three, 
Attind  with  our  allagiance. 


LYRA   HIBERNICA. 

Here  come  likewise 

Her  bould  allies, 
Both  Asian  and  Europian  ; 

From  East  and  West 

They  send  their  best 
To  fill  her  Coornucopean. 

I  seen  (thank  Grace  1) 

This  wondthroiis  place 
(His  Noble  Honor  Misther 

H.  Cole  it  was 

That  gave  the  pass, 
And  let  me  see  what  is  there). 

With  conscious  proide 

I  stud  insoide 
And  look'd  the  World's  Great  Fair  in, 

Until  me  sight 

Was  dazzled  quite, 
And  couldn't  see  for  staring. 

There's  holy  saints 

And  window  paints. 
By  Maydiayval  Pugin  ; 

Alhamborough  Jones 

Did  paint  the  tones 
Of  yellow  and  gambouge  in. 

There's  fountains  there 

And  crosses  fair  ; 
There's  water-gods  with  urrns  : 

There's  organs  three, 

To  play  d'ye  see  ? 
"  God  save  the  Queen,"  by  turrns. 

There's  statues  bright 
Of  marble  white. 
Of  silver,  and  of  copper  ; 


THE  CRYSTAL   PALACE.  171 

And  some  in  zinc, 

And  some,  I  think, 

That  isn't  over  proper. 

There's  staym  ingynes, 

That  stands  in  lines, 
Enormous  and  amazing, 

That  squeal  and  snort 

Like  whales  in  sport. 
Or  elephants  a-grazing. 

There's  carts  and  gigs. 

And  pins  for  pigs. 
There's  dibblere  and  there's  harrows, 

And  ploughs  like  toys 

For  little  boys. 
And  ilegant  wheelbarrows. 

For  thim  genteels 

Who  ride  on  wheels. 
There's  plenty  to  indulge  'em  : 

There's  droskys  snug 

From  Paytersbug, 
And  vayhycles  from  Bulgium. 

There's  cabs  on  stands 

And  shandthry  danns  ; 
There's  waggons  from  New  York  here  ; 

There's  Lapland  sleighs 

Have  cross'd  the  seas. 
And  jaunting  cyars  from  Cork  here. 

Amazed  I  pass 

From  glass  to  glass, 
Deloighted  I  survey  'em  ; 

Fresh  wondthers  grows 

Before  me  nose 
In  this  sublime  Musayum  ! 


172  LYRA   HIBERNICA, 

Look,  here's  a  fan 

From  far  Japan, 
A  sabre  from  Damasco  : 

There's  shawls  ye  get 

From  far  Thibet, 
And  cotton  prints  from  Glasgow. 

There's  German  flutes, 

Marocky  boots. 
And  Naples  macaronies  ; 

Bohaymia 

Has  sent  Bohay  ; 
Polonia  her  polonies. 

There's  granite  flints 

That's  quite  imminse. 
There's  sacks  of  coals  and  fuels. 

There's  swords  and  guns, 

And  soap  in  tuns, 
And  gingerbread  and  jewels. 

There's  taypots  there, 

And  cannons  rare  ; 
There's  coffins  fill'd  with  roses  ; 

There's  canvas  tints, 

Teeth  insthrumints. 
And  shuits  of  clothes  by  Moses. 

There's  lashins  more 

Of  things  in  store. 
But  thim  I  don't  remimber  ; 

Nor  could  disclose 

Did  I  compose 
From  May  time  to  Novimber  ! 

Ah,  Judy  thru  I 
With  eyes  so  blue, 
That  you  were  here  to  view  it  ! 


MOLOKV'S  LAMENT.  I  73 

And  could  I  screw 
But  tu  pound  tu, 
'Tis  I  would  thrait  you  to  it  ! 

So  let  us  raise 

Victoria's  praise, 
And  Albert's  proud  condition, 

That  takes  his  ayse 

As  he  surveys 
This  Cristial  Exhibition- 


MOLONY'S   LAMENT. 

0  Tim,  did  you  hear  of  thim  Saxons, 
And  read  what  the  peepers  report  ? 

They're  goan  to  recal  the  Liftinant, 

And  shut  up  the  Castle  and  Coort ! 
Our  desolate  counthry  of  Oireland 

They're  bint,  the  blagyards,  to  desthroy, 
And  now  having  murdthered  our  counthry. 

They're  goin  to  kill  the  Viceroy. 
Dear  boy ; 

'Twas  he  was  our  proide  and  our  joy  ' 

And  will  we  no  longer  behould  him. 
Surrounding  his  carriage  in  throngs, 

As  he  waves  his  cocked-hat  from  the  windies. 
And  smiles  to  his  bould  aid-de-congs  ? 

1  liked  for  to  see  the  young  haroes, 

All  shoining  with  sthripes  and  with  stars. 
A  horsing  about  in  the  Phaynix, 
And  winking  the  girls  in  the  cyars. 

Like  Mars, 
A  smokin'  their  poipes  and  cigyars. 


1/4  LYRA    HIBERMCA. 

Dear  Mitchell  exoiled  to  Bermudies, 

Your  beautiful  oilids  you'll  ope, 
And  there'll  be  an  abondance  of  croyin' 

From  O'Brine  at  the  Keep  of  Good  Hope, 
When  they  read  of  this  news  in  the  peepers, 

Acrass  the  Atlantical  wave, 
That  the  last  of  the  Oirish  Liftinints 

Of  the  oisland  of  Seents  has  tuck  lave. 
God  save 

The  Queen — she  should  betther  behave. 

And  what's  to  become  of  poor  Dame  Sthreet, 

And  who'll  ait  the  puffs  and  the  tarts, 
Whin  the  Coort  of  imparial  splindor 

From  Doblin's  sad  city  departs  ? 
And  who'll  have  the  fiddlers  and  pipers, 

When  the  deuce  of  a  Coort  there  remains  ? 
And  where'll  be  the  bucks  and  the  ladies, 

To  hire  the  Coort-shuits  and  the  thrains  ? 
In  sthrains. 

It's  thus  that  ould  Erin  complains  ! 

There's  Counsellor  Flanagan's  leedy, 

'Twas  she  in  the  Coort  didn't  fail, 
And  she  wanted  a  plinty  of  popplin, 

For  her  dthress,  and  her  flounce,  and  her  tail 
She  bought  it  of  Misthress  O'  Grady, 

Eight  shillings  a  yard  tabinet. 
But  now  that  the  Coort  is  concluded, 

The  divvle  a  yard  will  she  get ; 
I  bet, 

Bedad,  that  she  wears  the  ould  set 

There's  Surgeon  O'TooIe  and  Miss  Leary, 
They'd  daylings  at  Madam  O'Riggs'  ; 

Each  year  at  the  dlhrawing-room  sayson, 
They  mounted  the  neatest  of  wigs. 


MOLONY'S  LAMENT.  175 

When  Spring,  with  its  buds  and  its  daisies, 
Comes  out  in  her  beauty  and  bloom, 

Thim  tu'll  never  think  of  new  jasies, 
Because  there  is  is  no  dthrawing-room. 

For  whom 
They'd  choose  the  expense  to  ashume. 

There's  Alderman  Toad  and  his  lady, 

'Twas  they  gave  the  Clart  and  the  Poort, 
xVnd  the  poineapples,  turbots,  and  lobsters, 

To  feast  the  Lord  Liftinint's  Coort. 
But  now  that  the  quality's  goin, 

I  warnt  that  the  aiting  will  stop, 
And  you'll  get  at  the  Alderman's  teeble 

The  devil  a  bite  or  a  dthrop, 
Or  chop  ; 

And  the  butcher  may  shut  up  his  shop. 

Yes,  the  grooms  and  the  ushers  are  goin, 

And  his  Lordship,  the  dear  honest  man. 
And  the  Duchess,  his  eemiable  leedy. 

And  Corry,  the  bould  Connellan, 
And  little  Lord  Hyde  and  the  childthren, 

And  the  Chewter  and  Governess  tu  ;' 
And  the  servants  are  packing  their  boxes, — 

Oh,  murther,  but  what  shall  I  due 
Without  you  ? 

O  ^leery,  with  ois  of  the  blue  ! 


176  LYRA    HIBERNICA. 


MR.    MOLONY'S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE 
BALL 

GIVEN   TO   THE    NEPAULESE    AMBASSADOR    BY  THE     PENIN- 
SULAR  AND    ORIENTAL   COMPANY. 

O  WILL  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news, 

Bedad  I  cannot  pass  it  o'er  ; 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  Ball 

To  the  Naypaulase  Ambassador. 
Begor  !  this  fete  all  balls  does  bate 

At  which  I've  worn  a  pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 

Of  th'  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 
"  We'll  show  the  blacks,"  says  they,  "Almack's," 

"And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis's." 
With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 

They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 
And  decked  the  walls,  and  stairs,  and  halls, 

With  ro^es  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  JuUien's  band  it  tuck  its  stand 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 
And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chunes. 

And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 
And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I'd  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A  nate  buffet  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was. 

At  ten  before  the  ball-room  door. 

His  moighty  Excellency  was. 
He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd, 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 


ACCOUNT  OF   THE  BALL.  1 77 

His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 

Into  the  door-way  followed  him  ; 
And  O  the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys. 

As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him  ! 

The  noble  Chair  *  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump  ;  and  he 
Did  thus  evince,  to  that  Black  Prince, 

The  welcome  of  his  Company. 
O  fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys  you  saw  there,  was  ; 
And  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi. 

On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther,  was  ! 

This  Gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals, 
(Bedad  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals  ;) 
And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air 

Recloinin  on  his  cushion  was, 
All  round  about  his  royal  chair 

The  squeezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

O  Pat,  such  girls,  such  Jukes,  and  Earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee  ! 
Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 

Amidst  the  hoigh  gentilitee  ! 
There  was  Lord  De  L'Huys,  and  the  Portygeese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there,. 
And  I  reckonised,  with  much  surprise. 

Our  messmate,  Bob  O'Grady,  there  ; 


*  James  Matheson,  Esq.,  to  whom,  and  the  Board  of 
Directors  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental  Company,  1, 
Timotheus  Molony,  late  stoker  on  board  the  "  Iberia," 
the  "  Lady  Mary  Wood,"  the  "  Tagus,"  and  the  Oriental 
steamships,  humbly  dedicate  this  production  of  my  grate- 
ful muse. 


178  LYRA   HIBERNICA. 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  looked  likejuno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there, 
And  Countess  Roullier,  that  looked  peculiar 

Well,  in  her  robe-  of  gauze  in  there. 
There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first. 

When  only  Mr.  Pips  he  was). 
And  Mick  O'Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall,  and  his  ladies  all. 

And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufferin, 
And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife  ; 

I  wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 

And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  /  go  there  ? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 

And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  Jukes,  and  Earls,  and  diamonds,  and  pearls. 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there  ; 
And  some  beside  (the  rogues  I)  I  spied. 

Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 
Oh,  there's  one  I  know,  bedad,  would  show 

As  beautiful  as  any  there. 
And  I'd  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a  fut  with  Fanny  there  ! 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK. 

Ye  Genii  of  the  nation. 

Who  look  with  veneration, 
And  Ireland's  desolation  onsaysingly  deplore 

Ye  sons  of  General  Jackson, 

Who  thrample  on  the  Saxon, 
Attend  to  the  thransaction  upon  Shannon  shore. 


THE  BATTLE   Of  LIMERICK.       I  79 

When  William,  Duke  of  Schumbug, 

A  tyrant  and  a  humbug. 
With  cannon  and  with  thunder  on  our  city  bore, 

Our  fortitude  and  valliance 

Insthructed  his  battaUons 
To  rispict  the  galliant  Irish  upon  Shannon  shore. 

Since  that  capitulation, 

No  city  in  this  nation 
So  grand  a  reputation  could  boast  before. 

As  Limerick  prodigious, 

That  stands  with  quays  and  bridges. 
And  the  ships  up  to  the  windies  of  the  Shannon 
shore. 

A  chief  of  ancient  line, 

'Tis  William  Smith  O'Brine 
Reprisints  this  darling  Limerick,  this  ten  years  or 
more  : 

O  the  Saxons  can't  endure 

To  see  him  on  the  flure. 
And  thrimble  at  the  Cicero  from  Shannon  shore  ! 

This  valliant  son  of  Mars 

Had  been  to  visit  Par's, 
That  land  of  Revolution,  that  grows  the  tricolor  ; 

And  to  welcome  his  returrn 

From  pilgrimages  furren, 
We  invited  him  to  tay  on  the  Shannon  shore. 

Then  we  summoned  to  our  board 

Young  Meagher  of  the  sword  ; 
'Tis  he  will  sheathe  that  battle-axe  in  Saxon  gore  ; 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast 

We  bade  to  our  repast. 
To  dthrink  a  dish  of  coffee  on  the  Siwnnon  shore. 


l8o  LYRA    HIBERNICA. 

Convaniently  to  hould 

These  patriots  so  bould, 
We  tuck  the  opportunity  of  Tim  Doolan's  store  : 

And  with  ornamints  and  banners 

(As  becomes  gintale  good  manners) 
We   made   the  loveliest  tay-room  upon  Shannon 
shore. 

'Twould  binifit  your  sowls 

To  see  the  buttherd  rowls, 
The  sugar-tongs  and  sangwidges  and  craim  gal- 
yore, 

And  the  muffins  and  the  crumpets, 

And  the  band  of  harps  and  thrumpets, 
To  celebrate  the  sworry  upon  Shannon  shore. 

Sure  the  Imperor  of  Bohay 
Would  be  proud  to  dthrink  the  tay 

That  Misthress    Biddy  Rooney  for  O'Brine  did 
pour  ; 
And  since  the  days  of  Strongbow, 
There  never  was  such  Congo — 

Mitchil  dthrank  six  quarts  of  it — by  Shannon  shore. 

But  Clarndon  and  Corry 

Connellan  beheld  this  sworry 
With  rage  and  imulation  in  their  black  hearts'  core  ; 

And  they  hired  a  gang  of  ruffins 

To  interrupt  the  muffins 
And  the  fragrance  of  the  Congo  on  the  Shannon 
shore. 

When  full  of  tay  and  cake, 

O'Brine  began  to  spake  ; 
But  juice  a  one  could  hear  him,  for  a  sudden  roar 

Of  a  ragamuffin  rout 

Began  to  yell  and  shout. 
And  frighten  the  propriety  of  Shannon  shore. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIMERICK.       l8l 

As  Smith  O'Brine  harangued, 
They  batthered  and  they  banged  : 

Tim  Doolan's  doors  and  windies  down  they  tore  ; 
They  smashed  the  lovely  windies 
(Hung  with  muslin  from  the  Indies), 

Purshuing  of  their  shindies  upon  Shannon  shore. 

With  throwing  of  brickbats, 
Drowned  puppies  and  dead  rats, 

These  ruffin  democrats  themselves  did  lower  ; 
Tin  kettles,  rotten  eggs. 
Cabbage-stalks,  and  wooden  legs, 

They  flung  among  the  patriots  of  Shannon  shore. 

O  the  girls  began  to  scrame 

And  upset  the  milk  and  crame  ; 
And  the  honorable   gintlemin,  they   cursed    and 
swore  : 

And  Mitchil  of  Belfast, 

'Twas  he  that  looked  aghast. 
When  they  roasted  him  in  effigy  by  Shannon  shore. 

O  the  lovely  tay  was  spilt 
On  that  day  of  Ireland's  guilt  ; 
Says  Jack  Mitchil,  "  I  am  kilt  !    Boys,  where's  the 
back  door? 
'Tis  a  national  disgrace  : 
Let  me  go  and  veil  me  face  ;" 
And  he  boulted  with  quick  pace  from  the  Shannon 
shore. 

"  Cut  down  the  bloody  horde  !" 

Says  Meagher  of  the  sword, 
"  This  conduct  would  disgrace  any  blackamore  ;"' 

But  the  best  use  Tommy  made 

Of  his  famous  battle  blade 
Was  to  cut  his  ov/n  stick  from  the  Shannon  shore. 


1 82  LYRA    IIIBERNICA. 

Immortal  Smith  O'Brine 

Was  raging  like  a  line  ; 
'Twould  have  done  your  sowl  good  to  have  heard 
him  roar  ; 

In  his  glory  he  arose, 

And  he  rush'd  upon  his  foes. 
But  they  hit  him  on  the  nose  by  the  Shannon  shore. 

Then  the  Futt  and  the  Dthragoons 

In  squadthrons  and  platoons, 
With  their  music  playing  chunes,  down  upon  us 
bore  ; 

And  they  bate  the  rattatoo. 

But  the  Peelers  came  in  view, 
And  ended  the  shaioo  on  the  Shannon  shore. 


LARRY  O'TOOLE. 

You've  all  heard  of  Larry  O'Toolt, 
Of  the  beautiful  tov/n  of  Drumgoole 

He  had  but  one  eye, 

To  ogle  ye  by — 
Oh,  murther,  but  that  was  a  jew'l ! 

A  fool 
He  made  of  de  girls,  dis  O'Toole. 

'Twas  he  was  the  boy  didn't  fail, 

That  tuck  down  pataties  and  mail  ; 
He  never  would  shrink 
From  any  strong  dthrink. 

Was  it  wiiiskey  or  Drogheda  ale  ; 
I'm  bail 

This  Larry  would  swallow  a  pail. 


THE  ROSE  OF  FLORA.  1 83 

Oh,  many  a  night  at  the  bowl, 
With  Larry  I've  sot  cheek  by  jowl  ; 

irie's  gone  to  his  rest. 

Where  there's  dthrink  of  the  best, 
And  so  let  us  give  his  old  sowl 

A  howl. 
For  t'was  he  made  the  noggin  to  rowl. 


THE  ROSE  OF  FLORA. 


SENT  BY  A  YOUNG   GENTLEMAN   OF  QUALITY  TO  MISS  BR-DY, 
OF  CASTLE    BRADY. 


On  Brady's  towers  there  grows  a  flower. 
It  is  the  loveliest  flower  that  blows, — 

At  Castle  Brady  there  lives  a  lady 
(And  how  I  love  her  no  one  knows)  ; 

Her  name  is  Nora,  and  the  goddess  Flora 
Presents  her  with  this  blooming  rose. 

"  O  Lady  Nora, "says  the  goddess  Flora, 
"  I've  many  a  rich  and  bright  parterre  ; 

In  Brady's  towers  there'n  seven  more  flowers, 
But  you're  the  fairest  lady  there  : 

Not  all  the  county,  nor  Ireland's  bounty. 
Can  projuice  a  treasure  that's  half  so  fair  I" 

What  cheek  is  redder  ?  sure  roses  fed  her  ! 

Her  hair  is  maregolds,  and  her  eyes  of  blew. 
Beneath  her  eyelid,  is  like  the  vi'let, 

That  darkly  glistens  with  gentle  jew  ! 
The  lily's  nature  is  not  surely  whiter 

Than  Nora's  neck  is, — and  her  arrums  too. 


LYRA   HIBERNICA. 


"Come,  gentle  Nora,"  says  the  goddess  Flora, 
"  My  dearest  creature,  take  my  advice  : 

There  is  a  poet,  full  well  you  know  it, 

Who  spends  his  lifetime  in  heav}'  sighs, — 

Young  Redmond  Barry,  'tis  him  you'll  marry, 
If  rhyme  and  raisin  you'd  choose  likewise." 


THE  LAST  IRISH  GRIEVANCE. 

On  reading  of  the  general  indignation  occasioned 
in  Ireland  by  the  appointment  of  a  Scotch  Pro- 
fessor to  one  of  Her  Majesty's  Godless  Colleges, 
Master  MoLLOY  Molony,  brother  of  Thaddeus 
MoLONY,  Esq.,  of  the  Temple,  a  youth  only  fif- 
teen years  of  age,  dashed  off  the  following  spirited 
lines  : 

As  I  think  of  the  insult  that's  done  to  this  nation, 
Red  tears  of  rivinge  from  me  faytures  I  wash, 

And  uphold  in  this  pome,  to  the  world's  daytista- 
tion, 
The  sleeves  that  appointed  Professor  M''Cosh. 

I  look  round  me  counthree,  renowned  by  e.xpari- 
ence, 
And  see  midst  her  childthren,    the   witty,  the 
wise, — 
Whole  hayps  of  logicians,  poets,  schollars,  gram- 
marians. 
All  ayger  for  pleeces,  all  panting  to  rise  ; 

I  gaze  round  the  world  in  its  utmost  diminsion  ; 

Lard  Jahn  and  his  minions  in  Council  I  ask. 
Was  there  ever  a  Government-pleece  (with  a  pinsion) 

But  the  children  of  Erin  were  fit  for  that  task  ? 


Trin  LAST  IRISH  GRIEVANCE.       185 

What,  Erin  beloved,  is  thy  fetal  condition  ? 

What  shame  in  aych  boosom  must  rankle  and 
burrun, 
To  think  that  our  counlree  has  ne'er  a  logician 

In  the  hour  of  her  deenger  will  surrev  her  turrun ! 

On  the  logic  of  Saxons  there's  little  reliance, 
And,  rather  from  Saxon  than  gather  its  rules, 

I'd  stamp  under  feet  the  base  book  of  his  science. 
And  spit  on  his  chair  as  he  taught  in  the  schools  ! 

O  false  Sir  John  Kane  !  is  it  thus  that  you  praych 
me? 

I  think  all  your  Queen's  Universitees  Bosh  ; 
And  if  you've  no  neetive  Professor  to  taych  me, 

I  scawurn  to  be  learned  by  the  Saxon  M'Cosh. 

There's  Wiseman  and  Chume,  and  His  Grace  the 
Lord  Primate, 
That  sinds  round  the  box,  and  the  world  will 
subscribe  : 
'Tis  they'll  build  a  College  that's  fit  for  our  cli- 
mate. 
And  taych  me  the  saycrets  I  burn  to  imboibe  ! 

'Tis  there  as  a  Student  of  Science  I'll  enther, 
Fair    Fountain    of    Knowledge,   of  Joy,    and 
Contint  ! 
Saint  Pathrick's  sweet  Statue  shall  stand  in  the 
centher, 
And  wink  his  dear  oi  every  day  during  Lint. 

Andgood  Doctor  Newman,  that  praycher  unwary, 
'Tis  he  shall  preside  the  Academee  School, 

And  quit  the  gay  robe  of  St.  Philip  of  Neri, 
To    wield    the    soft    rod    of    St.    Lawrence 

O'TOOLE ! 


THE 

BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 


THE    WOFLE    NEW   BALLAD  OF    JANE 
RONEY  AND  MARY  BROWN. 

An  igstrawnary  tail  I  vill  tell  you  this  veek — 
I  stood  in  the  Court  of  A'Beckett  the  Beak, 
Vera  Mrs.  Jane  Roney,  a  vidow,  I  see, 
Who  charged  Mary  Brown  with  a  robbin  of  she. 

This  Mary  was  pore  and  in  misery  once, 

And   she   came    to  Mrs.  Roney    it's   more    than 

twelve  monce. 
She  adn't  got  no  bed,  nor  no  dinner  nor  no  tea, 
And  kind  Mrs.  Roney  gave  Mary  all  three. 

Mrs.  Roney  kep  Mary  for  ever  so  many  veeks, 
(Her  conduct  disgusted  the  best  of  all  Beax,) 
She  kep  her  for  nothink,  as  kind  as  could  be. 
Never  thinkin  that  this   Mary  was  a  traitor  to 
she. 

"Mrs.  Roney,  O  Mrs.  Roney,  I  feel  ver)'  ill  ; 
Will  you  just  step  to  the  Doctor's  for  to  fetch  me 

a  pill?" 
"That  I  will,  my  pore  Mary,"  Mrs.  Roney  says 

she  ; 
And  she  goes  ofl  to  the  Doctor's  as  quickly  as 

may  be. 


yAXE  ROXEY  AND  MARY  DROWN.    1 87 

No  sooner  on  this  message  Mrs.  Roney  was  sped. 
Than   hup  gits   vicked  Mar}',  and  jumps   out  a 

bed; 
She  hopens  all  the  trunks  without  never  a  key — 
She  busies  all   the   boxes,  and  vith  them    makes 

free. 

Mrs.  Roney's   best   linning,  gownds,    petticoats, 

and  close, 
Her  children's  little  coats  and  things,  her  boots, 

and  her  hose, 
She  packed  them,  and  she  stole  'em,  and  avay 

vith  them  did  flee. 
Mrs.   Roney's   situation — you   may  think  vat   it 

vould  be  ! 

Of  Mary,    ungrateful,  who   had   served   her  tliis 

vay, 
Mrs.  Roney  heard  nothink  for  a  long  year  and  a 

day. 
Till  last  Thursday,  in  Lambeth,  ven  whom  should 

she  see 
But   this    Mary,  as  had    acted  bo   ungrateful  to 

she  ? 

She  was  leaning  on  the  helbo  of  a  worthy  young 

man. 
They  were  going  to  be  married,  and  were  walkin 

hand  in  hand  ; 
And  the  Church  bells  was  a  ringing  for  Mary  antl 

he. 
And  the  parson  was  ready,  and  a  waitin  for  his 

fee. 

When   up  comes    Mrs.  Roney,    and   faces    ?«Iary 

Brown, 
Who    trembles,   and    castes    her  eyes    upon    the 

ground. 


1 88       BALLADS   OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

She  calls  a  jolly  pleaseman,  it  happens  to  be  me  ; 
I  charge  this  young  woman,  Mr.  Pleaseman,  says 

she. 

"  Mrs.  Roney,  o,  Mrs.  Roney,  o,  do  let  me  go 
1  acted  most  ungrateful  I  own.  and  I  know, 
But   the  marriage  bell  is  a  ringin,  and    the  ring 

you  may  see, 
And  thisyoungman  is  a  waitin,"  says  Mary  says 

she. 

"  I  don't  care  three  fardens  for  the   parson  and 

dark, 
And  the  bell  may  keep  ringin  from  noonday  to 

dark. 
Mary  Brown,  Mary  Brown,  you  must  come  along 

with  me  ; 
And  I  think  this  young  man  is  lucky  to  be  free." 

So,  in  spite  of  the  tears   which    bejew'd  Mary's 

cheek, 
I  took  that  young  gurl  to  A'Beckett  the  Beak  , 
That  exlent  Justice  demanded  her  plea — 
But  never  a  sullable  said  Mary  said  she. 

On  account  of  her  conduck  so  base  and  so  vile, 
That  wicked  young  gurl  is  committed  for  trile. 
And  if  she's  transpawted  beyond  the  salt  sea, 
It's  a  proper  reward  for  such  willians  as  she. 

Now   you  young  gurls  of  Southvvark  for  Mary 

who  veep. 
From  pickin   and  stealin   your  ands    you    must 

keep. 
Or  it  may  be  my  dooty,  as  it  was  Thursday  veek. 
To  pull  you  all  hup  to  A'Beckett  the  Beak. 


THE  THREE  CHRISTMAS  WAITS.    1S9 


THE  THREE  CHRISTxMAS  WAITS. 

My  name  is  Pleaceman  X  ; 

Last  night  I  was  in  bed, 
A  dream  did  me  perplex, 

Which  came  into  my  Edd. 
I  dreamed  I  sor  three  Waits 

A  playing  of  their  tune. 
At  Pimlico  Palace  gates, 

All  underneath  the  moon. 
One  puffed  a  hold  French  horn, 

And  one  a  hold  Banjo, 
And  one  chap  seedy  and  torn 

A  Hirish  pipe  did  blow. 
They  sadly  piped  and  played, 

Dexcribing  of  their  fates  ; 
And  this  was  what  they  said, 

Those  three  pore  Christmas  wails  :- 

"  When  this  black  year  began. 
This  Eighteen-forty-eight, 

I  was  a  great  great  man. 

And  king  both  vise  and  great. 

And  Munseer  Guizot  by  me  did  show 
As  Minister  of  State. 

"  But  Febuwerry  came. 

And  brought  a  rabble  rout. 

And  me  and  my  good  dame 
And  children  did  turn  out, 

And  us,  in  spite  of  all  our  right, 
Sent  to  the  right  about. 

"  I  left  my  native  ground, 

I  left  my  kin  and  kith, 
I  left  my  royal  crownd, 

Vich  I  couldn't  travel  vith, 


190       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

And  without  a  pound  came  to  English  ground 
In  the  name  of  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Like  any  anchorite 

I've  lived  since  I  came  here, 
I've  kep  myself  quite  quite, 

I've  drank  the  small  small  beer, 
And  the  vater,  you  see,  disagrees  vith  me 

And  all  my  famly  dear. 

"  O  Tweeleries  so  dear, 

O  darling  Pally  Royl, 
Vas  it  to  finish  here 

That  I  did  trouble  and  toyl  ? 
That  all  my  plans  should  break  in  my  amis, 

And  should  on  me  recoil  ? 

"  My  state  I  fenced  about 

Vith  baynicks  and  vith  guns  ; 
My  gals  I  portioned  hout, 

Rich  vives  I  ^ot  my  sons  ; 

0  varn't  it  crule  to  lose  my  rule, 
My  money  and  lands  at  once  ? 

"  And  so,  vid  arp  and  woice, 
Both  troubled  and  shagreened, 

1  bid  you  to  rejoice, 

0  glorious  England's  Queend  ! 

And  never  have  to  veep,  like  pore  Louis-Phileep 
Because  you  out  are  cleaned. 

"  O  Prins,  so  brave  and  stout, 

1  stand  before  your  gate  ; 
Pray  send  a  trifle  hout 

To  me,  your  pore  old  Vait  ; 
For  nothink  could  be  vuss  than  it's  been  along 
vith  us 
In  this  year  Forty-eight." 


THE  THREIi  CHRISTMAS  WAITS.    191 

"  Ven  this  bad  year  began," 

The  next  man  said,  saysee, 
"  I  vas  a  Journeyman, 

A  taylor  black  and  free. 
And  my  wife  went  out  and  chaired  about. 

And  my  name's  the  bold  Cuffee. 

"  The  Queen  and  Halbert  both 

I  swore  I  would  confound, 
I  took  a  hawfle  hoath 

To  drag  them  to  the  ground  ; 
And  sevral  more  with  me  they  swore 

Aginst  the  British  Crownd. 

"  Aginst  her  Pleaceman  all 
We  said  we'd  try  our  strenth  ; 

Her  scarlick  soldiers  tall 

We  vow'd  we'd  lay  full  lenth  : 

And  out  we  came,  in  Freedom's  name, 
Last  Aypril  was  the  tenth. 

"  Three  'undred  thousand  snobs 

Came  out  to  stop  the  vay, 
Vith  sticks  vith  iron  knobs, 

Or  else  we'd  gained  the  day. 
The  harmy  quite  kept  out  of  sight 

And  so  ve  vent  avay. 

'■  Next  day  the  Pleacemen  came — 
Rewenge  it  was  their  plann — 

And  from  my  good  old  dame 
They  took  her  tailor-mann  : 

And  the  hard  hard  beak  did  me  bespeak 
To  Newgit  in  the  Wanii. 

"  In  that  etrocious  Cort 
The  Jev.-ry  did  agree  , 


192       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

The  Judge  did  me  transport, 

To  go  beyond  the  sea  : 
And  so  for  life,  from  his  dear  wife 

They  took  poor  old  Cuffee. 

"  O  Halbert,  Appy  Prince  ? 

With  children  round  your  knees, 
Ingraving  ansum  Prints, 

And  taking  hoff  your  hease  ; 
O  think  of  me,  the  old  Cuffee, 

Beyond  the  solt  solt  seas  ! 

"  Although  I'm  hold  and  black, 
My  hanguish  is  most  great  ; 

Great  Prince,  O  call  me  back. 
And  I  vill  be  your  Vait  ! 

And  never  no  more  vill  break  the  Lor, 
As  I  did  in  'Forty-eight," 

The  tailer  thus  did  close 
(A  pore  old  blackymore  rogue), 

"When  a  dismal  gent  uprose, 

And  spoke  with  Hirish  brogue  : 

"  I'm  Smith  O'Brine,  of  Royal  Line, 
Descended  from  Rory  Ogue. 

"  When  gi'eat  O'Connle  died. 
That  man  whom  all  did  trust. 

That  man  whom  Henglish  pride 
Beheld  with  such  disgust. 

Then  Erin  free  fixed  eyes  on  me, 
And  swoar  I  should  be  fust. 

"  '  The  glorious  Hirish  Crown,* 
Says  she,  '  it  shall  be  thine  : 

Long  time,  it's  wery  well  known, 
You  kep  it  in  your  line  : 

That  diadem  of  hemerald  gem 
Is  yours,  my  Smith  O'Brine. 


THE  THREE  CHRISTMAS  WAITS.    1 93 

"  ■  Too  long  the  Saxon  churl 

Our  land  encumbered  hath  ; 
Arise,  my  Prince,  my  Earl, 

And  brush  them  from  thy  path  : 
Rise,  mighty  Smith,  and  sveep  'em  vith 

The  besom  of  your  wrath.' 

"  Then  in  my  might  I  rose. 

My  country  I  surveyed, 
I  saw  it  filled  with  foes, 

I  viewed  them  undismayed  ; 
*  Ha,  ha  !'  says  I,  '  the  harvest's  high, 

I'll  reap  it  with  my  blade.' 

"  My  warriors  I  enrolled, 

They  rallied  round  their  lord  ; 

And  cheafs  in  council  old 
I  summond  to  the  board — 

Wise  Doheny  and  Duffy  bold, 
And  Meagher  of  the  Sword. 

"  I  stood  on  Slievenamaun, 

They  came  with  pikes  and  bills  ; 

They  gathered  in  the  dawn, 
Like  mist  upon  the  hills. 

And  rushed  adown  the  mountain  side 

Like  twenty  tliousand  rills. 

"  Their  fortress  we  assail  ; 

Hurroo  !  my  boys,  hurroo  ! 
The  bloody  Saxons  quail 

To  hear  the  wild  shaloo  : 
Strike,  and  prevail,  proud  Innesfail, 

O'Brine  aboo,  aboo  ! 

"  Our  people  they  defied  ; 

They  shot  at  'em  like  savages. 
Their  bloody  guns  they  plied 

With  sanguinary  ravages  : 


194      BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide 

That  day  among-  the  cabbages  ! 

■'  And  so  no  more  I'll  say, 
But  ask  your  Mussy  great. 

And  humbly  sing  and  pray, 
Your  Majesty's  poor  Wait : 

Your  Smith  O'Brine  in  'Forty-nine 
Will  blush  for  'Forty-eight." 


LINES    ON     A    LATE     HOSPICIOUS 
EWENT.* 

BV    A   (JENTLKMAN    OF   THE    FOOT-GUARDS    (BLUE). 

I  PACED  upon  my  beat 

With  steady  step  and  slow. 
All  huppandownd  of  Ranelagh  Street ; 

Ran'lagh  St.  Pimlico. 

While  marching  huppandownd 

Upon  that  fair  May  morn, 
Beold  the  booming  cannings  sound, 

A  royal  child  is  born  ! 

The  Ministers  of  State 

Then  presenly  I  sor. 
They  gallops  to  the  Pallis  gate, 

In  carridges  and  for. 

With  anxious  looks  intent, 

Before  the  gate  they  stop, 
There  comes  the  good  Lord  President, 

And  there  the  Archbishopp. 

*  The  birth  of  Prince  Arthur. 


LINES  ON  A  HOSPICIOUS  EWENT.  1 95 

Lord  John  he  next  elights  ; 

And  who  comes  here  in  haste  ? 
'Tis  the  ero  of  one  underd  fights, 

The  caudle  for  to  taste. 

Then  Mrs.  Lily,  the  nuss, 

Towards  them  steps  with  joy  ; 

Says  the  brave  old  Duke,  "  Come  tell  to  us, 
Is  it  a  gal  or  a  boy  ?" 

Says  Mrs.  L.  to  the  Duke. 

'•'  Your  Grace,  it  is  a  Friiur'." 
And  at  that  nuss's  bold  rebuke 

He  did  both  laugli  and  wince. 

He  vews  with  pleasant  look 

This  pooty  flower  of  May. 
Then  says  the  wenerable  Duke, 

*'  Egad,  it's  my  buthday," 

By  memory  backards  borne. 

Peraps  his  thoughts  did  stray 
To  that  old  place  where  he  was  born 

Upon  the  first  of  May. 

Perhaps  he  did  recall 

The  ancient  towers  of  Trim  ; 
And  County  Meath  and  Dangan  Hall 

They  did  rewisit  him. 

I  phansy  of  him  so 

His  good  old  thoughts  employin'  ; 
Fourscore  years  and  one  ago 

Beside  the  flowin'  Boyne. 

His  father  praps  he  sees, 
Host  musicle  of  Lords, 


196       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

A  playing  maddrigles  and  glees 
Upon  the  Arpsicords. 

Jest  phansy  this  old  Ero 
Upon  his  mother's  knee  ! 

Did  ever  lady  in  this  land 
Ave  greater  sons  than  she  ! 

And  I  shouldn  be  surprize 
While  this  was  in  his  mind, 

If  a  drop  there  twinkled  in  his  eyes 
Of  unfamiliar  brind. 


To  Hapsly  Ouse  next  day 
Drives  up  a  Broosh  and  for, 

A  gracious  prince  sits  in  that  Shay 
(I  mention  him  with  Hor  !) 

They  ring  upon  the  bell, 
The  Porter  shows  his  Ed. 

(He  fought  at  Vaterloo  as  veil, 
And  years  a  Veskit  red). 

To  see  that  carriage  come. 
The  people  round  it  press  : 

"  And  is  the  galliant  Duke  at  ome  ?" 
'■  Your  Royal  Ighness,  yes." 

He  stepps  from  out  the  Broosh 

And  in  the  gate  is  gone  ; 
And  X,  although  the  people  push, 

Says  wery  kind,  "  Move  hon." 

The  Royal  Prince  unto 
The  galliant  Duke  did  say, 

"  Dear  Duke,  my  little  son  and  you 
Was  born  the  self-same  day. 


LINES  ON  A  HOSPICIOUS  EWENT.   I  97 

"  The  I.ady  of  the  land, 

My  wife  and  Sovring  dear, 
It  is  by  her  horgust  command 

I  wait  upon  you  here. 

"  That  lady  is  as  well 

As  can  expected  be  ; 
And  to  your  Grace  she  bid  me  tel 

This  gracious  message  free. 

"  That  offspring  of  our  race, 

Whom  yesterday  you  see. 
To  show  our  honor  for  your  Grace, 

Prince  Arthur  he  shall  be. 

"  That  name  it  rhymes  to  fame  ; 

All  Europe  knows  the  sound  ; 
And  I  couldn't  find  a  better  name 

If  you'd  give  me  twenty  pound. 

"  King  Arthur  had  his  knights 

That  girt  his  table  round. 
But  you  have  won  a  hundred  fights. 

Will  match  'em,  I'll  be  bound. 

"  You  fought  with  Bonypart, 

And  likewise  Tippoo  Saib  ; 
I  name  you  then  with  all  my  heart 

The  Godsire  of  this  babe." 

That  Prince  his  leave  was  took. 

His  hinterview  was  done. 
So  let  us  give  the  good  old  Duke 

Good  luck  of  his  god-son, 

And  wish  him  years  of  joy 
In  this  our  time  of  Schism, 


198       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

And  hope  he'll  hear  the  royal  boy 
His  little  catechism. 

And  my  pooty  little  Prince 
That's  come  our  arts  to  cheer. 

Let  me  my  loyal  powers  ewince 
A  welcomin  of  you  ere. 

And  the  Poit-Laureat's  crownd, 

I  think,  in  some  respex, 
Egstremely  shootable  might  be  found 

P'or  honest  Pleaseman  X. 


TME    BALLAD   OF    ELIZA    DAVIS. 

Gai.liant  gents  and  lovely  ladies, 

List  a  tail  vich  late  befel, 
Vich  I  heard  it,  bein  on  duty, 

At  the  Pleace  Hoffice,  Clerkenwell. 

Praps  you  know  the  Fondling  Chapel, 
Vere  the  little  children  sings  : 

(Lor  !   I  likes  to  hear  on  Sundies 
Them  there  pooty  little  things  !) 

In  this  street  there  lived  a  housemaid, 
If  you  particklarly  ask  me  where — 

Vy,  it  vas  at  four-and-tventy 

Guilford  Street,  by  Brunsvick  Square. 

Vich  her  name  was  Eliza  Davis, 

And  she  went  to  fetch  the  beer  : 
In  the  street  she  met  a  party 

As  was  quite  surprized  to  see  her. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ELIZA  DAVIS.     1 99 

Vich  he  vas  a  British  Sailor, 

For  to  judge  him  by  his  look  : 
Tarry  jacket,  canvas  trowsies, 

Ha-ia  Mr.  T.  P.  Cooke. 

Presently  this  Mann  accostes 

Of  this  hinnocent  young  gal — 
"  Pray,"  saysee,  "  excuse  my  freedom, 

You're  so  like  my  Sister  Sal  ! 

"  You're  so  like  my  Sister  Sally, 
Both  in  valk  and  face  and  size. 

Miss,  that^dang  my  old  lee  scuppers, 
It  brings  tears  into  ray  heyes  ! 

"I'm  a  mate  on  board  a  wessel, 

I'm  a  sailor  bold  and  true  ; 
Shiver  up  my  poor  old  timbers, 

Let  me  be  a  mate  for  you  ! 

"  What's  your  name,  my  beauty,  tell  me  ;" 
And  she  faintly  hansers,  "  Lore, 

Sir,  my  name's  Eliza  Davis, 
And  I  live  at  tventy-four." 

Hofttimes  came  this  British  seaman. 

This  deluded  gal  to  meet ; 
And  at  tventy-four  was  welcome, 

Tventy-four  in  Guilford  Street. 

And  Eliza  told  her  Master 

(Kinder  they  than  Misuses  are), 

How  in  marridge  he  had  ast  her, 
Like  a  galliant  British  Tar. 

And  he  brought  his  landlady  vith  him, 
(Vich  was  all  his  hartful  plan). 


200      BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

And  she  told  how  Charley  Thompson 
Reely  vas  a  good  young  man  : 

And  how  she  herself  had  lived  in 

Many  years  of  union  sweet 
Vith  a  gent  she  met  promiskous, 

Valkin  in  the  public  street. 

And  Eliza  listened  to  them, 

And  she  thought  that  soon  their  bands 
Vould  be  published  at  the  Fondlin, 

Hand  the  clergyman  jine  their  ands. 

And  he  ast  about  the  lodgers, 

(Vich  her  master  let  some  rooms), 

Likevise  vere  they  kep  their  things,  and 
Vere  her  master  kep  his  spoons. 

-    Hand  this  vicked  Charley  Thompson 
Came  on  Sundy  veek  to  see  her  ; 
And  he  sent  Eliza  Davis 

Hout  to  fetch  a  pint  of  beer. 

Hand  while  pore  Eliza  vent  to 
Fetch  the  beer,  dewoid  of  sin. 

This  etrocious  Charley  Thompson 
Let  his  wile  accomplish  hin. 

To  the  lodgers,  their  apartments, 
This  abandingd  female  goes. 

Prigs  their  shirts  and  umberellas  ; 

Prigs  their  boots,  and  hats,  and  clothes. 

\'\\t  the  scoundrle  Charley  Thompson, 
Lest  his  wictim  should  escape, 

Hocust  her  vith  rum  and  vater. 
Like  a  fiend  in  huming  shape. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ELIZA  DAVIS.     20I 

But  a  hi  was  fixed  upon  'em 

Vich  these  raskles  little  sore  ; 
Namely,  Mr.  Hide,  the  landlord 

Of  the  house  at  tventy-four. 

He  was  valkin  in  his  garden. 

Just  afore  he  vent  to  sup  ; 
And  on  looking  up  he  sor  the 

Lodgers'  vinders  lighted  up. 

Hup  the  stairs  the  landlord  tumbled  ; 

Something's  going  wrong,  he  said  ; 
And  he  caught  the  vicked  voman 

Underneath  the  lodger's  bed. 

And  he  called  a  brother  Pleaseman, 

Vich  was  passing  on  his  beat. 
Like  a  true  and  galliant  feller. 

Hup  and  down  in  Guilford  Street. 

And  that  Pleaseman  able-bodied 

Took  this  voman  to  the  cell  ; 
To  the  cell  vere  she  was  quodded, 

In  the  Close  of  Clerkenwell. 

And  though  vicked  Charley  Thompson 

Boulted  like  a  miscrant  base. 
Presently  another  Pleaseman 

Took  him  to  the  self-same  place. 

And  this  precious  pair  of  raskles 
Tuesday  last  came  up  for  doom  ; 

By  the  beak  they  was  committed, 
Vich  his  name  was  Mr.  Combe. 

Has  for  poor  Eliza  Davis, 
Simple  gurl  of  tventy-four, 


BALLADS   OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

She,  I  ope,  vill  never  listen 
In  the  streets  to  sailors  raoar. 

But  if  she  must  ave  a  sweet-art, 
(Vich  most  every  gurl  expex,) 

Let  her  take  a  jolly  pleaseman  ; 
Vich  his  name  peraps  is — X. 


DAMAGES,  TWO  HUNDRED  POUNDS. 

Special  Jurymen  of  England  !  who  admire  your 

country's  laws. 
And  proclaim  a  British  Jury  worthy  of  the  realm's 

applause  ; 
Gayly  compliment  each  other  at  the  issue  of  a 

cause 
Which  was  tried  at  Guildford  'sizes  this  day  week 

as  ever  was. 

Unto  that  august  tribunal  comes  a  gentleman  in 
grief, 

(Special  was  the  British  Jury,  and  the  Judge,  the 
Baron  Chief,) 

Comes  a  British  man  and  husband — asking  of  the 
law  relief. 

For  his  wife  was  stolen  from  him — he'd  have  ven- 
geance on  the  thief. 

Yes,  his  wife,  the  blessed  treasure  with  the  which 

his  life  was  crowned. 
Wickedly  was  ravished  from  him  by  a  hypocrite 

profound. 
And  he  comes  before    twelve    Britons,  men    for 

sense  and  truth  renowned, 


DAMAGES,  TWO  riUXDRED  POUNDS.  203 

To  award  him  for  his   damage  twenty  hundred 
sterling  pound. 

He  by  counsel  and  attorney  there  at  Guildford  does 

appear, 
Asking  damage  of  the  villian  who  seduced  his  lady 

dear  : 
But  I  can't  help  asking,  though  the  lady's  guilt 

was  all  too  clear. 
And   though    guilty   the   defendant,    wasn't   the 

plaintiff  rather  queer  ? 

First  the  lady's  mother  spoke,  and  said  she'd  seen 

her  daughter  cry 
But  a  fortnight    after  marriage  :  early  times  for 

piping  eye. 
Six   months   after,   things  were   worse,   and  the 

piping  eye  was  black, 
And  this  gallant  British  husband  caned  his  wife 

upon  the  back. 

Three  months  after  they  were  married,  husband 

pushed  her  to  the  door, 
Told  her  to  be  off  and  leave  him,  for  he  wanted 

her  no  more. 
As  she  would  not  go,  why  he  went :  thrice  he  left 

his  lady  dear  ; 
Left  her  too  without  a  penny,  for  more  than  a 

quarter  of  a  year. 

Airs.  Frances  Duncan  knew  the  parties  very  well 

indeed, 
She  had  seen  him  pull  his  lady's  nose   and  make 

her  lip  to  bleed  ; 
If  he  chanced  to  sit  at  home  not  a  single  word  lie 

said : 
Once  she  saw  him  throw  the  cover  of  a  dish  at  his 

lady's  head. 


204      BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

Sarah    Green,  another  witness,  clear  did   to  the 

jury  note 
How  she  saw  this  honest  fellow  seize  his  lady  by 

the  throat, 
How  he  cursed  her  and  abused  her,  beating  her 

into  a  fit, 
Till  the  pitying  next-door  neighbors  crossed  the 

wall  and  witnessed  it. 

Next  door  to  this  injured  Briton  Mr.  Owers  a 
butcher  dwelt ; 

Mrs.  Ower's  foolish  heart  toward  this  erring 
dame  did  melt  ; 

(Not  that  she  had  erred  as  yet,  crime  was  not  de- 
veloped in  her), 

But  being  left  without  a  penny,  Mrs.  Owers  sup- 
plied her  dinner — 

Clod  be  merciful  to  Mrs.  Owers,  who  was  merciful 
to  this  sinner  ! 

Caroline  Naylor  was  their  servant,  said  they  led  a 

wretched  life, 
Saw  this  most  distinguished  Briton  fling  a  teacup 

at  his  wife  ; 
He  went  out  to  balls  and   pleasures,  and    never 

once,  in  ten  months'  space. 
Sat  with  his  wife  or  spoke  her  kindly.     This  was 

the  defendant's  case. 

Pollock,  C.  B.,  charged  the  Jury  ;  said  the  wom- 
an's guilt  was  clear  ; 

That  was  not  the  point,  however,  which  the  Jury 
came  to  hear  ; 

But  the  damage  to  determine  which,  as  it  should 
true  appear. 

This  most  tender-hearted  husband,  who  so  used 
his  lady  dear — 


DAMAGES,  TWO  HUNDRED  POUNDS.  205 

Beat  her,  kicked  her,  caned  her,  cursed  her,  left 
her  starving,  year  by  year, 

Flung  her  from  him,  parted  from  her,  wrung  Iier 
neck,  and  boxed  her  ear — 

What  the  reasonable  damage  this  afflicted  man 
could  claim 

By  the  loss  of  the  affections  of  this  guilty  grace- 
less dame  ? 

Then  the  honest  British  Twelve,  to  each  other 
turning  round, 

Laid  their  clever  heads  together  with  a  wisdom 
most  profound  : 

And  toward  his  Lordship  looking,  spoke  the  fore- 
man wise  and  sound  ; — 

"  My  Lord,  we  find  for  this  here  plaintiff, 
damages  two  hundred  pound." 

So,  God  bless  the  Special  Jury  !  pride  and  joy  of 
English  ground, 

And  the  happy  land  of  England,  where  true  jus- 
tice does  abound  ! 

British  jurj'men  and  husbands,  let  us  hail  this 
verdict  proper : 

If  a  British  wife  offends  you,  Britons,  you've  a 
right  to  whop  her. 

Though  you  promised  to  protect  her,  though  you 

promised  to  defend  her. 
You  are  welcome  to  neglect  her  :  to  the  devil  you 

may  send  her : 
You  may  strike  her,  curse,  abuse  her  ;  so  declares 

our  law  renowned  ; 
And  if  after  this  you  lose  her, — why,  you're  paid 

two  hundred  pound. 


2o6       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 


THE  KNIGHT  AND  THE  LADY. 

There's  in  the  Vest  a  city  pleasant 
To  vich  King  Bladud  gev  his  name, 

And  in  that  city  there's  a  Crescent 
Vere  dwelt  a  noble  knight  of  fame. 

Although  that  gallant  knight  is  oldish. 
Although  Sir  John  as  grey,  grey  air, 

Hagehas  not  made  his  busum  coldish. 
His  Art  still  beats  tewodds  the  Fair  ! 

'Twas  two  years  sins,  this  knight  so  splendid, 
Peraps  fateagued  with  Bath's  routines, 

To  Paris  towne  his  phootsteps  bended 
In  sutch  of  gayer  folks  and  scans. 

His  and  was  free,  his  means  was  easy, 

A  nobler,  finer  gent  than  he 
Ne'er  drove  about  the  Shons-Eleesy, 

Or  paced  the  Roo  de  Rivolee. 

A  brougham  and  pair  Sir  John  prov/ided. 
In  which  abroad  he  loved  to  ride  ; 

But  ar !  he  most  of  all  enjyed  it, 

When  some  one  helse  was  sittin'  inside  ! 

That  "  some  one  helse"  a  lovely  dame  was. 
Dear  ladies,  you  will  heasy  tell-  - 

Countess  Grabrowski  her  sweet  name  was, 
A  noble  title,  ard  to  spell. 

This  faymus  Countess  ad  a  daughter 

Of  lovely  form  and  tender  art  ; 
A  nobleman  in  marridge  sought  her, 

Bv  name  the  Baron  of  Saint  P>art. 


THE  KNIGHT  AND   THE  LADY.     207 

Their  pashn  touched  the  noble  Sir  John, 

It  was  so  pewer  and  profound  ; 
Lady  Grabrowsl<i  he  did  urge  on 

With  Hyming's  wreeth  their  loves  to  crownd. 

"  O,  come  to  Bath,  to  Lansdowne  Crescent," 
Says  kind  Sir  John,  "  and  live  with  me  ; 

The  living  there's  uncommon  pleasant — 
I'm  sure  you'll  find  the  hair  agree. 

"  O,  come  to  Bath,  my  fair  Grabrowski, 
And  bring  your  charming  girl,"  sezee  ; 

"  The  Barring  here  shall  have  the  ouse-key, 
Vith  breakfast,  dinner,  lunch,  and  tea. 

"  And  when  they've  passed  an  appy  winter, 
Their  opes  and  loves  no  more  we'll  bar  ; 

The  marridge-vow  they'll  enter  inter, 
And  I  at  church  will  be  their  Par." 

To  Bath  they  went  to  Lansdowne  Crescent, 
Where  good  Sir  John  he  did  provide 

No  end  of  teas  and  balls  incessant, 
And  bosses  both  to  drive  and  ride. 

He  was  so  Ospitably  busy. 

When  Miss  was  late,  he'd  make  so  bold 
Upstairs  to  call  out,  "  Missy,  Missy, 

Come  down,  the  coffy's  getting  cold  !  " 

But  O  !  'tis  sadd  to  think  such  bounties 
Should  meet  with  such  return  as  this  ; 

O  Barring  of  Saint  Bart,  O  Countess 
Grabrowski,  and  O  cruel  Miss  ! 

He  married  you  at  Bath's  fair  Habby, 
Saint  Bart  he  treated  like  a  son — 

And  wasn't  it  uncommon  shabby 
To  do  what  von  have  v/enl  and  done 


2o8      BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

My  trembling  And  amost  refewses 

To  write  the  charge  which  Sir  John  swore, 

Of  which  the  Countess  he  ecuses, 
Her  daughter  and  her  son-in-lore. 

My  Mews  quite  blushes  as  she  sings  of 
The  fatle  charge  which  now  I  quote  : 

He  says  Miss  took  his  two  best  rings  off, 
And  pawned  'em  for  a  tenpun  note. 

"  Is  this  the  child  of  honest  parince, 
To  make  away  with  folks'  best  things  ? 

Is  this,  pray,  like  the  wives  of  Barrins, 
To  go  and  prig  a  gentleman's  rings  ?  " 

Thus  thought  Sir  John,  by  anger  wrought  on, 
And  to  rewenge  his  injured  cause. 

He  brought  them  hup  to  Mr.  Broughton, 
Last  Vensday  veek  as  ever  waws. 

If  guiltless,  how  she  have  been  slandered  ! 

If  guilty,  wengeance  will  not  fail : 
Meanwhile  the  lady  is  remanded 

And  gev  three  hundred  pouns  in  bail. 


JACOB  HOMNIUM'S  HOSS. 

A  NEW   PALLICE   COURT   CHAUNT. 

One  sees  in  Viteall  Yard, 
Vere  pleacemen  do  resort, 

A  wenerable  hinstitute, 

'Tis  called  the  Pallis  Court. 

A  gent  as  got  his  i  on  it, 

I  think  'twill  make  some  sport. 


JACOB  HOMNIUM'S  HOSS.  209 

The  natur  of  this  Court 

My  hindignation  riles  : 
A  few  fat  legal  spiders 

Here  set  &  spin  their  viles  ; 
To  rob  the  town  theyr  privlege  is, 

In  a  hayrea  of  twelve  miles. 

The  Judge  of  this  year  Court 

Is  a  mellitary  beak, 
He  knows  no  more  of  Lor 

Than  praps  he  does  of  Greek, 
And  prowides  hisself  a  deputy 

Because  he  cannot  speak. 

Four  counsel  in  this  Court — 

Misnamed  of  Justice— sits  ; 
These  lawyers  owes  their  places  to 

There  money,  not  their  wits  ; 
And  there's  six  attornies  under  them. 

As  here  their  living  gits. 

These  lawyers,  si.x  and  four. 

Was  a  living  at  their  ease, 
A  sendin  of  their  writs  abowt, 

And  droring  in  the  fees. 
When  their  erose  a  cirkimstance 

As  is  like  to  make  a  breeze. 

It  now  is  some  monce  since 

A  gent  both  good  and  trew 
Possest  an  ansum  oss  vith  vich 

He  didn  know  what  to  do  ; 
Peraps  he  did  not  like  the  oss, 

Peraps  he  was  a  scru. 

This  gentleman  his  oss 

At  Tattersall's  did  lodge  ; 


I O       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

There  came  a  wulgar  oss-dealer. 

This  gentleman's  name  did  fodge, 
And  took  the  oss  from  Tattersall's  : 

Wasn  that  a  artful  dodge  ? 

One  day  this  gentleman's  groom 

This  willain  did  spy  out, 
A  mounted  on  this  oss 

A  ridin  him  about  ; 
"  Get  out  of  that  there  oss,  you  rogue," 

Speaks  up  the  groom  so  stout. 

The  thief  was  cruel  wex'd 
To  find  himself  so  pinu'd  ; 

The  oss  began  to  whinny, 

The  honest  groom  he  grinn'd  ; 

And  the  raskle  thief  got  off  the  oss 
And  cut  avay  like  vind. 

And  phansy  with  what  joy 

The  master  did  regard 
His  dearly  bluvd  lost  oss  again 

Trot  in  the  stable  yard  ! 

Who  was  this  master  good 

Of  whomb  I  makes  these  rhymes  ? 

His  name  is  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire' 
And  if  /'d  committed  crimes. 

Good  Lord  !  I  wouldn't  ave  that  mann 
Attack  me  in  the  Times  ! 

Now  shortly  after  the  groomb 
His  master's  oss  did  take  up, 

There  came  a  livery-man 
This  gentleman  to  wake  up  ; 

And  lie  handed  in  a  little  bill, 
Which  hangered  !Ir.  Jacob. 


JACOB  HOMNIUM'S  HOSS.  211 

For  two  pound  seventeen 

This  livery-man  eplied, 
For  the  keep  of  Mr.  Jacob's  oss, 

Which  the  thief  had  took  to  ride. 
"  Do  you  see  anythink  green  in  me?" 

Mr.  Jacob  Homnium  cried. 

"  Because  a  raskle  chews 

My  oss  away  to  robb, 
And  goes  tick  at  your  Mews 

For  seven-and-fifty  bobb, 
Shall  /  be  call'd  to  pay  ? — It  is 

A  iniquitious  Jobb." 

Thus  Mr.  Jacob  cut 

The  conwasation  short  : 
The  livery-man  went  ome, 

Detummingd  to  ave  sport, 
And  summingsd  Jacob  Homnium,  Exquire, 

Into  the  Pallis  Court. 

Tore  Jacob  went  to  Court, 

A  Counsel  for  to  fix. 
And  choose  a  barrister  out  of  the  four, 

An  attorney  of  the  six  : 
And  there  he  sor  these  men  of  Lor, 

And  watch'd  'em  at  their  tricks. 

The  dreadful  day  of  trile 

In  the  pallis  Court  did  come  ; 
The  lawyers  said  their  say. 

The  judge  look'd  wery  glum, 
And  then  the  British  Jury  cast 

Pore  Jacob  Hom-ni-um. 

O  a  weary  day  was  that 
For  Jacob  to  go  through  ; 


2  12       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

The  debt  was  two  seventeen 

(Which  he  no  mor  owed  than  you), 

And  then  there  was  the  plaintives  costs, 
Eleven  pound  six  and  two. 

And  then  there  was  his  own, 
Which  the  lawyers  they  did  fix 

At  a  wery  moderit  figgar 
Of  ten  pound  one  and  six. 

Now  Evins  bless  the  Pallis  Court, 
And  all  its  bold  ver-dicks  ! 

I  cannot  settingly  tell 

If  Jacob  swaw  and  cust, 
At  aving  for  to  pay  this  sumb  ; 

But  I  should  think  he  must, 
And  av  drawn  a  cheque  for  £2^  4J.  9iJ. 

With  most  igstreme  disgust. 

O  Pallis  Court,  you  move 

My  pitty  most  profound. 
A  most  emusing  sport 

You  thought  it  I'll  be  bound, 
To  saddle  hup  a  three-pound  debt 

With  two  and-twenty  pound. 

Good  sport  it  is  to  you 

To  grind  the  honest  pore, 
To  pay  their  just  or  unjust  debts 

With  eight  hundred  per  cent  for  Lor 
Make  haste  and  get  your  costes  in, 

They  will  not  last  much  mor  ! 

Come  down  from  that  tribewn, 
Thou  shameless  and  Unjust ;_ 

Thou  Swindle,  picking  pockets  in 
The  name  of  Truth  august : 


THE  SPECULATORS. 

Come  down,  thou  hoary  Blasphemy, 
For  die  thou  shalt  and  must. 

And  go  it,  Jacob  Homnium, 

And  ply  your  iron  pen, 
And  rise  up,  Sir  John  Jervis, 

And  shut  me  up  that  den  ; 
That  sty  for  fattening  lawyers  in 

On  the  bones  of  honest  men. 


Pleaceman  X. 


THE    SPECULATORS. 

The  night  was  stormy  and  dark.  The  town  was 
shut  up  in  sleep  :  Only  those  were  abroad  who 
were  out  on  a  lark,  Or  those  who'd  no  beds  to 
keep. 

I  pass'd  through  the  lonely  street.  The  wind 
did  sing  and  blow  ;  I  could  hear  the  policeman's 
feet     Clapping  to  and  fro. 

There  stood  a  potato-man  In  the  midst  of  all 
the  wet  ;  He  stood  with  his  'tato-can  In  the 
lonely  Haymarket. 

Two  gents  of  dismal  mien,  And  dank  and 
greasy  rags,  Came  out  of  a  shop  for  gin,  Swag- 
gering over  the  flags : 

Swaggering  over  the  stones,  These  shabby 
bucks  did  walk  ;  And  I  went  and  followed  those 
seedy  ones.     And  listened  to  their  talk. 


CI4       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

Was  I  sober  or  awake  ?  Could  I  believe  my 
ears  ?  Those  dismal  beggars  spake  Of  nothing 
but  railroad  shares. 

I  wondered  more  and  more  :  Says  one — ■ 
"  Good  friend  of  mine,  How  many  shares  have 
you  wrote  for,     In  the  Diddlesex  Junction  line  ?" 

"  I  wrote  for  twenty,"  says  Jim,  "But  they 
wouldn't  give  me  one  ;"  His  comrade  straight 
rebuked  him     For  the  folly  he  had  done  : 

"  O  Jim,  you  are  unawares  Of  the  ways  of 
this  bad  town  ;  /  always  write  for  five  hundred 
shares,     And  then  they  put  me  down." 

"  And  yet  you  got  no  shares,"  Says  Jim,  "  for 
all  your  boast  ;"  "I  luoitld  have  wrote,"  says 
Jack,  "  but  where  Was  the  penny  to  pay  the 
post  ?" 

"  I  lost,  for  I  couldn't  pay  That  first  instal- 
ment up  ;  But  here's  'taters  smoking  hot — I  say. 
Let's  stop,  my  boy,  and  sup." 

And  at  this  simple  feast  The  while  they  did 
regale,  I  drew  each  ragged  capitalist  Down  on 
my  left  thumb-nail. 

Their  talk  did  me  perplex.  All  night  I  tumbled 
and  tost,  And  thought  of  railroad  specs.  And 
how  money  was  won  and  lost. 

"  Bless  railroads  everywhere,"  I  said,  "  and 
the  world's  advance ;  Bless  every  railroad  share 
In  Italy,  Ireland,  France  ;  For  never  a  beggar 
need  now  despair.  And  every  rogue  has  a 
chance." 


A   WOEFUL   NEW  BALLAD.         215 
A   WOEFUL   NEW   BALLAD 

OF  THE 

PROTESTANT    CONSPIRACY    TO    TAKE    THE 

POPE'S    LIFE. 

(by  a  gentleman  who  has  been  on  the  spot.) 

Come  all  ye  Christian  people,  unto  my  tale  give 

ear, 
'Tis  about  a  base  consperracy,  as  quickly  shall 

appear ; 
'Twill  make  your  hair  to  bristle  up,  and  your  eyes 

to  start  and  glow, 
When  of  this  dread  consperracy  you  honest  folks 

shall  know. 

The   news   of    this    consperracy   and   villianous 

attempt, 
I  read  it  in  a  newspaper,  from  Italy  it  was  sent : 
It  was  sent  from  lovely  Italy,  where  the  olives 

they  do  grow, 
And  our  Holy  Father  lives,  yes,  yes,  while  his 

name  it  is  No  no. 

And  'tis  there  our  English  noblemen  goes  that  is 

Puseyites  no  longer. 
Because  they  finds  the  ancient  faith  both  better 

is  and  stronger. 
And  'tis  there  I  knelt  beside  my  lord  when  he 

kiss'd  the  Pope  his  toe, 
And  hung  his  neck  wilh  chains  at  Saint  Peter's 

Vinculo. 

And  'tis  there  the  splendid  churches  is,  and  the 

fountains  playing  grand, 
And  the  palace  of  Prince  Torlonia,  likewise 

the  Vatican  : 


2l6       BALLADS   OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

And  there's  the  stairs  where  the  bagpipe-men  and 

the  piffararys  blow. 
And  it's  there  I  drove  my  lady  and  lord  in  the 

Park  of  Pincio. 

And  'tis  there  our  splendid  churches  is  in  all  their 

pride  and  glory. 
Saint  Peter's  famous  Basilisk  and  Saint  Mary's 

Maggiory  ; 
And  them  benighted  Prodestants,  on  Sunday  they 

must  go 
Outside  the  town  to  the  preaching-shop  by  the 

gate  of  Popolo. 

Now  in  this  town  of  famous  Room,  as  I  dessay 

you  have  heard, 
There  is  scarcely  any  gentleman  as  hasn't  got  a 

beard. 
And  ever  since  the  world  began  it  was  ordained  so, 
That  there  should  always  barbers  be  wheresumever 

beards  do  grow. 

And  as  it  always  has  been  so  since  the  world  it 

did  begin. 
The  Pope,  our  Holy  Potentate,  has  a  beard  upon 

his  chin  ; 
And  every  morning  regular  when  cocks  begin  to 

crow. 
There  comes  a  certing  party  to  wait  on  Pope  Pio. 

There  comes  a  certing  gintleman  with  razier,  soap, 

and  lather, 
A  shaving  most  respectfully  the  Pope,  our  Ploly 

Father. 
And  now  the  dread  consperracy  I'll  quickly  to  you 

show, 
Which  them    sanguinary   Prodestants   did    form 

against  Nono. 


A  WOEFUL  NEW  BALLAD.         217 

Them  sanguinary  Prodestants,  which  I  abore  and 

hate, 
Assembled  in  the  preaching-shop  by  the  Flaminian 

gate  ; 
And  they  took  counsel  with  their  selves  to  deal  a 

deadly  blow 
Against  our  gentle  Father,  the  Holy  Poi'F.  Pki. 

Exhibiting  a  wickedness  which  I  never  heerd  or 

read  of  ; 
What  do  you  think  them  Prodestants  wished  ?  to 

cut  the  good  Pope's  head  off  ! 
And  to  the  kind  Pope's  Air-dresser  the  Prodestant 

Clark  did  go. 
And    proposed    him    to    decapitate   the   innocent 

Pio. 

"  What  hevercan  be  easier,"  saiii  this  Clerk — this 

Man  of  Sin, 
"  When  you  arc  called  to  hoperate  on  His    lloli- 

ness's  chin, 
Than  just  to  give  the  raziera  little  slip — just  so?  — 
And  there's  an  end,  dear  barber,  of  innocent  Piu  1" 

This  wicked  conversation  it  chanced  was  overerd 
Ey  an  Italian  lad)- ;  she  heard  it  every  word  : 
Which  by  birth  she  Vv-as  a  Marchioness,  in  service 

forced  to  go 
With  the  parson  of  the  preaching-shop  at  the  gate 

of  Popolo. 

When  the  lady  heard  the  news,  as  duty  did  obleege, 
As  fast  as  her  legs  could  carry  her  she  ran  to  the 

Poleege. 
"  0  Polegia,"  says  she  (for  they  pronounts  it  so), 
"  They're  going  for  to  massvker  our  Holy  Pope 

Pio. 


2l8       BALLADS   OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

*'  The  ebomminable  Englishmen,  the  Parsing  and 

his  Clark, 
His  Hoiiness's  Air-dresser  devised  it  in  the  dark  ! 
And   I  would  recommend  you   in  prison  for  to 

throw 
These  villians  would  esassinate  the   Holy  Pope 

Pio! 

"  And  for  saving  of  His  Holiness  and  his  trebble 

crownd 
I  humbly  hope  your  Worships   will   give  me   a 

few  pound  ; 
Because  I  was  a  Marchioness  many  years  ago. 
Before  I  came  to  service  at  the  gate  of  Popolo." 

That   sackreligious   Air-dresser,   the  Parson  and 

his  man, 
Wouldn't    though   ask'd    continyally,    own   their 

wicked  plan — 
And  so  the  kind  Authoraties  let  those  villians  go 
That  was  plotting  of  the  murder  of  the  good  I'lo 

NoNO. 

Now  isn't  this   safishnt  proof,  ye  gentlemen  at 

home. 
How  wicked  is  them  Prodestants,  and  how  good 

our  Pope  at  Rome  ; 
So   let  us  drink  confusion   to   Lord  John   and 

Lord  Minto, 
And  a  health  unto  His  Eminence,  and  good  Poi 

NONO. 


THE  FOUNDLING  OF  SHORE.DITCH.   219 


THE  LAMENTABLE  BALLAD  OF  THE 
FOUNDLING  OF  SHOREDITCH. 

Come  all  ye  Christian   people,  and  listen  to  my 

tail, 
It  is  all  about  a  doctor  was  travelling  by  the  rail. 
By   the    H  eastern   Counties'    Railway   (vich   the 

shares  I  don't  desire). 
From  Ixworth  town  in  Suffolk,  vich  his  name  did 

not  transpire. 

A  travelling  from  Bury  this  Doctor  was  employed 
With  a  gentleman,  a  friend  of  his,  vich  his  name 

was  Captain  Loyd, 
And  on  reaching  Marks  Tey  Station,  that  is  next 

beyond  Colchest- 
er,  a  lady   entered    in  to    them   most    elegantly 

dressed. 

She  entered  into  the  Carriage  all  with  a  tottering 

step, 
And  a  pooty  little  Bayby  upon  her  bussum  slep  ; 
The  gentlemen   received  her  with  kindness    and 

siwillaty, 
Pitying  this  lady  for  her  illness  and  debillaty. 

She  had   a  fust-class  ticket,  this  lovely  lady  said  ; 
Because  it  was  so  lonesome  she  took  a  secknd 

instead. 
Better  to  travel  by  secknd  class,  than  sit  alone  in 

the  fust, 
And  the  pooty  little   Baby  upon  her  breast  she 

nust. 

A  seein  of  her  cryin,  and  shiverin  and  pail. 
To  her  spoke  this  surging,  the  Ero  of  my  tail  ; 


2  20      BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

Haysee  you  look  unwell,  Ma'am,  I'll  elp  you  if  I 

can, 
And   you   may  tell    your    case    to   me,  for  I'm    a 

meddicle  man. 

"  Thank  you,  Sir,"  the  lady  said,  "  I  only  look  so 

pale. 
Because  I  ain't  accustom'd  to  travelling  on  the 

Rale  ; 
I    shall    be    better  presnly,   when  I've    ad    some 

rest  :" 
And  that  pooty  little  Baby  she  squeeged  it  to  her 

breast. 

So  in  conwersation  the  journey  they  beguiled, 
Capting  Loyd  and  the  meddicle  man,  and  the  lady 

and  the  child, 
Till  the  warious  stations  along  the  line  was  passed. 
For  even  the  lieastern  Counties'  trains  must  come 

in  at  last. 

^^'llen  at  Shoreditch  tumniinus   at   lenth  stopped 

t'ne  train. 
This  kind  meddicle  gentleman  proposed  his  aid 

„  again. 
"  ihiiiik  you.  Sir,"  the  lady  said,  "  for  your  kyind- 

ness  dear  ; 
My  carridge  and  my  osses  is  probibbly  come  here. 

"  Will  you  old  this  baby,  please,  vilst  I  step  and 
see  ?" 

The  Doctor  was  a  famly  man  :  "That  I  will," 
says  he. 

Then  the  little  child  she  kist,  kist  it  very  gently, 

Vich  was  sucking  his  little  fist,  sleeping  inno- 
cent 1  v. 


THE  FOUNDLING  OF  SHOREDirCH.    22  1 

With  a  sigh  from  her  art,  as   though   she  would 

have  bust  it, 
Then  she  gave  the  Doctor  the  cliilcl — wery  kind 

he  nust  it : 
Hup  then  the  lady  jumped  hoff  the  bench  she  sat 

from , 
Tumbled  down  the  carridge  steps  and  rr.n  along 

the  platform. 

Vile  hall   the  other  passengers  vent   upon   their 

vays. 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  sat  there  in  a  maze  ; 
Some  vent  in  a  Ilomminibus,  some  vent  in  a 

Cabby, 
The  Capting  and  the  Doctor  vaitedvith  the  babby. 

There   they  sat    looking   queer,  for  an   hour   or 

more, 
But  their  feller  passinger  neather  on  'em  sore  : 
Never,  never  back  again  did  that  lady  come 
To  that   pooty  sleeping  Hinfnt  a  suckin  of    his 

Thum  ! 

What  could  this  pore  Doctor  do,  bein  treated  thus. 
When  the  darling  Baby  woke,  cryin  for  its  nuss  ? 
Off  he  drove  to  a  female  friend,  vich  she  was 

both  kind  and  mild. 
And  igsplained  to  her  the  circumstance  of  this 

year  little  child. 

That  kind  lady  took  the  child  instantly  in  her  lap. 
And  made  it  very  comfortable  by  giving  it  some 

pap  ;  ,  .   , 

And  when  she  took  its  close  off,  what  d  you  thmk 

she  found  ? 
A  couple  of  ten  pun  notes  sewn  up,  in  its  little 

gownd  ! 


2  22       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

Also  in  its  little  close  was  a  note  which  did  conwey, 
That  this  little  baby's  parents  lived  in  a  hand- 
some way 
And  for  its  Headucation  they  reglarly  would  pay, 
And  sirtingly  like  gentlefolks  would    claim  the 

child  one  day, 
If  the  Christian  people  who'd  charge  of  it  would 

say, 
Per  adwertisement  in  The  Times,  where  the  baby 
lay. 

Pity  of  this  bayby  many  people  took, 

It  had  such  pooty  ways  and  such  a  pooty  look  ; 

And    there   came  a  lady  forrard  (I   wish  that   I 

could  see 
Any  kind  lady  as  would  do  as  much  for  me  ; 

And  I  wish  with  all  my  art,  some  night  in  ;iiy 

night  gownd, 
I  could  find   a  note   stitched   for  ten  or  twenty 

pound) — 
There  came  a  lady  forrard,  that  most  honorable 

did  say. 
She'd  adopt  this  little  baby,  which  her  parents 

cast  away. 

While  the  Doctor  pondered  on  this  hoffer  fair. 
Comes  a  letter   from    Devonshire,   from  a  party 

there, 
Hordering  the  Doctor,  at  its  Mar's  desire, 
To  send  the  little  Infant  back  to  Devonshire. 

Lost  in  apoplexity,  this  pore  meddicle  man. 
Like  a  sensable  gentleman,  to  the  Justice  ran  ; 
Which  his  name  was  Mr.  Hammill,  a  honorable 

beak. 
That  takes  his  seat  in  Worship  Street  four  times 

a  week. 


THE  FOUNDLING  OF  SHOREDITCH.  2  2^ 

"O    Justice!"    says  the   Doctor,   "  instrugt   me 

what  to  do. 
I've  come  up  from  the  country,  to  throw  myself 

on  you  ; 
My  patients  have  no  doctor  to  tend  them  in  their 

ills, 
(There  they  are  in  Suffolk  without  their  draffts 

and  pills  !) 

"  I've  come  up  from  the  country,  to  know  how 

I'll  dispose 
Of  this  pore  little  baby,  and  the  twenty  pun  note. 

and  the  close, 
And  I  want  to  go  back  to  Suffolk,  dear  Justice,  if 

you  please, 
And  my  patients  wants  their  Doctor,  and  their 

Doctor  wants  his  feez." 

Up  spoke  Mr.  Hammill,  sittin  at  his  desk, 
"  This  year  application  does  me  much  perplesk  ; 
What  I  do  adwise  you,  is  to  leave  this  babby 
In  the    Parish  where  it  was  left   by  its  mother 
shabby." 

The  Doctor  from  his  Worship  sadly  did  depart — 
He  might  have  left  the  baby,  but  he  hadn't  got 

the  heart 
To  go  for  to  leave  that  Hinnocent,  has  the  laws 

allows, 
To  the  tender  mussies  of  the  Union  House. 

Mother,  who  left  this  little  one  on  a  stranger's 

knee. 
Think  how  cruel  you  have  been,  and  how  good 

was  he  ! 
Think,  if  you've  been  guilty,  innocent  was  she  : 
And  do  not  take  unkindly  this  little  word  of  me  : 
Heaven  be  merciful  to  us  all,  sinners  as  we  be  I 


2  24       BALLADS  OF  POLICEMAN  X. 


THE    ORGAN-BOY'S   APPEAL. 

"Westminster  Police  Coukt. — Policeman  X  brought 
a  paper  of  doggerel  verses  to  the  Magistrate,  which  h;^d 
been  thrust  into  his  hands,  X  said,  by  aa  Italian  boy,  who 
ran  away  immediately  afterward. 

"  The  Magistrate,  after  perusing  the  lines,  looked 
hard  at  X,  and  said  he  did  not  think  they  were  written  by 
an  Italian. 

"  X,  blushing,  said  he  thought  the  paper  read  in 
Court  last  week,  and  which  frightened  so  the  old  gentle- 
man to  whom  it  was  addressed,  was  also  not  of  Italian 
origin." 

O  SiGNOR  Broderip,  vou  are  a  wickid  ole  man, 
You  wexis  us  little   horgin-boys   whenever   you 

can  : 
How  dare  you  talk  of  Justice,  and  go  for  to  seek 
To   pussicute    us    horgin-boys,    you    senguinary 

Beek? 

Though   you   set  in   Vestminster  surrounded  by 

your  crushers, 
Harrogint  and    habsolute  like  the  Hortacrat   of 

hall  the  Rushers, 
Yet  there  is  a  better  vurld  I'd  have  you  for  to 

know. 
Likewise  a  place  vera  the  henimies  of  horgin-boys 

will  go. 

O  you  vickid  Hkrod  without  any  pity  ! 
London  vithout  horgin-boys  vood  be  a  dismal  city. 
Sweet   Saint    Cicily  who  first    taught   horgin- 

pipes  to  blow 
Soften  the  heart  of  this  Magistrit  that  haggery- 

wates  us  so  ! 

Good  Italian  gentlemen,  fatherly  and  kind. 
Brings  us  over  to  London  here  our  horgins  for  to 
grind  ; 


THE  ORGAN-BOY'S  APPEAL.         225 

Sends  us  out  vith  little  vite  mice  and  guinea-pigs 

also 
A  popping  of  the  X'easel  and  a  Jumpin  of  Jim 

Crow. 

And  as  us  young  horgin-boys  is  grateful  in  our 

turn 
We  gives  to  these  kind  gentlemen  hall  the  money 

we  earn, 
Because  that  they  vood  vop  us  as  wery  wel  \vc 

know 
Unless  we  brought  our  burnings  back  to  them  as 

loves  us  so. 

O  Mr.  Broderip  !  wery  much  I'm  surprise, 
Ven  you    take  your  valks  abroad  where  can  be 

your  eyes? 
If  a  Beak  had  a  heart  then  you'd  compryend 
Us  pore   little  horgin-boys  was  the  poor  man's 

friend. 

Don't  you  see  the  shildren  in  the  droring-rooms 
Clapping  of  their  little  ands  when  they  year  our 

toons  ? 
On    their    mothers'    bussums  don't    you    see  the 

babbies  crow 
And  down  to  us  dear  horgin-boys  lots  of  apence 

throw  ? 

Don't  you  see  the  ousemaids  (pooty  Follies  and 

Maries), 
Ven  ve  bring  our  urdigurdis,  smiling  from  the 

hairies  ? 
Then  they  come  out  vith  a  slice  o'  cole  puddn  or 

a  bit  o'  bacon  or  so 
And  give  it  us  young  horgin-boys  for  lunch  afore 

we  go. 


2  26       BALLADS   OF  POLICEMAN  X. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  Hirish  children  sport 
When  our  velcome  music-box  brings  sunshine  in 

the  Court  ? 
To  these  little  paupers  who  can  never  pay 
Surely  all  good  horgin-boys,  for  God's  love,  will 

play. 

Has  for  those    proud   gentlemen,   like  a  serting 

B— k 
(Vich  I  von't  be  pussonal  and  therefore  vil  not 

speak). 
That  flings  their  parler-vinders  hup  ven  ve  begin 

to  play 
And  cusses  us  and  swears  at  us  in  such  a  wiolent 

way, 

Instedd  of  their  abewsing  and  calling  hout  Poleece 
Let  em  send  out  John  to  us  vith  sixpence  or  a 

shillin  apiece. 
Then  like   good   young    horgin-boys    avay  from 

there  we'll  go. 
Blessing  sweet    Saint    Cicily   that   taught   our 

pipes  to  blow. 


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